


Blendings; A Watson's Secret

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, All mistakes are my own, Always a happy ending I promise you that :), BAMFJohn, BAMFSherlock, Blendings, Completed, Drama, Graphic Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of emotional drama on this, M/M, Psychological Torture, Small descriptions of rape, VERY EVIL CH19, first fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a secret. One which he wishes to keep close to his chest. But with both the Holmes' brothers constantly studying him (for a better word); how long will it be before they deduce that John Watson is one of the VERY few Blendings left? And what would they do about it? And what happens when Moriarty realises the true importance of John The Pet Watson. </p><p> </p><p>Taster; He noticed four things; he still couldn't see even with his eyes open, there was a heavy weight by his ankle and he could move his mouth and finally, his wrists where behind his back, refusing to move. He concluded to himself that he was blindfolded, his feet and wrists where bound but he could speak, which told him he could not escape but would more than likely be made to talk without identifying his abductors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. BLENDINGS.  A DEFFINITION (of sorts)

**Author's Note:**

> First ever. Be critical.
> 
>  
> 
> Written as an Alternative Universe. Just a lot of warnings on here, can't tag them all.  
> Will update as much and as quickly as I can.
> 
>  
> 
> This Fanfic will be mainly focused up on series one, and mostly on episode 3.
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes:::  
> This Fanfic does not reflect "The Blending Series". The Blending is a fantasy series by Sharon Green and there are five novels in The Blending series. I've never read them myself so the ideas in this Fanfic are my own. 
> 
>  
> 
> The Characters are that of the BBC. I do not own Sherlock in any shape or form.

The last known birth of a Blending was a little over thirty years ago, it was registered but, like every other registration, the name was completely forbidden to be written. This is the law that was placed so long ago that people have forgotten the when and the who but they could never forget the why. This is simply because a Blending is hunted down and drained of their purity (blood) and left to rot. However, there is still an orginisation which exist today by the name of 'The Collectors' searching for the final ten remaining Blendings to drain in order to absorb their properties. It must be said that no matter the failed attempts through the years from others gone before them, they still remain firm in the belief that the right ritual and the perfect timing will give them the perfect results.

 

It must be said that no one truly understands where the Blendings come from but it is known that they are only males who hold the mark; which is a small birth mark on the right buttock which is always in the shape of a white, pale padlock, about the size of a ten pence piece.

 

However, there is a prophecy kicking about in the Holding Hall where scrolls from a millennia are held. The Prophecy basically states that;

 

_**"The last Blending born will be the purest of the pure and its mark would be left open and the blood line here shall end. Upon the last, secrets are held and he shall suffer more than most. He will live and die then live again, with a loyal heart and a truthful soul. He shall heal upon the battle fields he finds and embark on a journey with an angel of its own mind. THIS will be the end of a dying race and bring forth a one anew"** _

 

That's all it says on the scroll and many Holders have tried to come up with an explanation of what it means. But alas; many have come up with their own versions and beliefs of what the Blending may become and some of these are embedded within The Collectors Cult. The main interpretation stands as that the final Blending will be the one to unlock the secrets of becoming immune to everything and also the blood will transfer the powers upon anyone. It is also believed that the mark of a locked padlock upon other Blendings would not be so for the last, it would in fact hold the mark of an unlocked padlock, showing the purest of the pure and the last of a miracle breed of human beings. As for the rest, it has been transferred many ways that the prophecy has become tarnished and the words lost. Because of many break ins upon the Holding Hall, the scrolls have been moved to another and no one but the Holders know of its location. (It should be pointed out that Holders are secret, almost like spies. No one knows who they are but themselves).

 

It is also know that a Blending grows up with the rate of normal humans, up until their thirtieth birthday, which is when they stop aging. Again, it must be emphasised that the Blendings are NOT immortal but can live for centuries and are immune to any illness that is thrown their way. It has also been recorded that a Blending holds supernatural abilities which are few but quite extraordinary and each have the very same. This allows them to recognise their own kind and mingle among them to reproduce. Yes. These males can be impregnated, by a one of their kind or a Normal (which is what they come to have named normal people). They can also have visions of the past and present, sometimes involuntary (mainly under stress), but most of the time it just takes a concentrated touch, skin to skin contact. A Blending can also blend into their surroundings, becoming invisible but still very much there and they can also plant ideas into a Normal's mind (depending on their mental weakness). Finally, developing from this Planting, a Blending is known to be able to spin dreams and/or nightmares upon a sleeping Normal.

 

This is all that has been recorded about Blendings, apart from one little thing; because of their pure blood as it is known, they have their own blood group, but also registered under blood type O negative because of the need for them to be hidden from the world. That is, a Blending now lives in secret because of the dangerous ongoing Cult that threatens their miracle of existence. This has been going on for centuries now and has gotten worse, seeing as though thirty years ago, the tenth Blending was recorded and it seems that another is not forthcoming.


	2. Hidden in Plain Sight

John Watson was born in a private hospital, away from the prying eyes of the public and only with the most trustworthy of nurses, doctors and midwives. This was because of the insistence of his mother, they had enough money anyway and she begged daily since she found out she was pregnant. The only reason she ever gave her husband was the dream she had received and continued to throughout the pregnancy. She kept seeing an unlocked padlock and a faceless male child but still, she knew what it meant and, after the explanation, so did the father. He yielded, of course he did. No one would trust the public once they knew what was being born, especially with the ideas formed around the final prophecy. Anyone would want to protect their child, with everything they have, even if it meant spending every last penny they had saved just to do that. 

 

So John was born and was registered as a Normal. No one ever found out unless John was the one to tell people. Once John was told if his DNA, it would be up to him who he can trust. They didn't even let Harriet know why all their money was spent on her baby brother, and for this reason she inwardly detested her baby brother and they never did get along throughout childhood. It only got worse when John was told about himself and he drew within himself, didn't make close friends and spent all his time studying to become a medic. He didn't have time for his sister either. He was hidden in plain sight, a blending among the Normals an all he ever wants to be is normal. He acts like one, thinks like one and becomes one, even if he finds it dull, it was better than being treated as a damn supernatural thing. 

 

Just after he graduated and was a certified medic, he got the worst news he could ever have though possible. On his graduation night, his mother and father were travelling down with Harry and her wife to come and celebrate with him. Their car had been hit by a lorry and all passengers had died, what was worse about it all, the lorry driver was drunk and having a phone argument with his girlfriend. He survived with a brain injury and no memory of anything. John started to feel alone, lost and his world had come tumbling down. 

 

This was why he went into the Army. He didn't even go to the funeral, although he arranged some of it. He just wanted to forget, to be in his own world and try and rebuild what he had lost. He still kept the phone Harry gave him, it kept him grounded somewhat, reminded him not to get himself killed. During his time in the army, he finally realised what he wanted. He wanted the adventure, the drama and the adrenaline that came with it. He loved it, well, as much as anyone can love a battle field. He fixed the broken and the wounded and his secrete is buried deep within him and he almost forgets about it for a while. That was until he got shot. It seems that when he begins to build his life again, something pulls him apart and turns his world on its ugly head. He seemed to think he is cursed and it's all because of that damn stupid birth mark on his fucking arse. While he was being treated for his shoulder, all he could think of was that damn mark and the pain and curse it has brought him. Then it became a physical pain in his damn leg, of all the things to come from this, he gets sent home with a fucking limp and a fucked up shoulder. Just when he wants to end everything, at long last, he meets an old friend and then finally, his world may just rebuild itself in the shape of one Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Rebuilding a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets a new potential flat mate and things get ... Interesting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first two chapters have been a short introduction, sort of like a two part prologue. This is where the length comes in, but not too much.
> 
> Thanks for reading :D

As Mike Stamford brought John into Barts that afternoon, he couldn't help but feel a little detached as it were. Everything had been up dated and renovated, not what he's been used to in his days of learning. At that moment, when they are walked through the corridor, Mike was babbling on about something and John mentally slaped himself for not listening more closely. All he could do was to give a tight smile and a small nod when Mike looks at him. Mike gave him a look of pity, somehow knowing that John was not listening but it was against his good nature to make another feel disheartened. He returned the smile, and continued walking towards the labs, knowing exactly who to introduce John to, he was actually giving a slight warning about Sherlock's apparent ability to send people running for the hills, but he knew John was too interested in the changes that surrounded him.

 

John for his part was indeed missing everything Mike was saying, but what he didn't miss, along with the up to date tech that surrounds him, was the way that Mike has slowed down in his walking. This did annoy John to the extent where he was cursing his damn luck with his damn leg and his stupid life. Maybe he should have used the gun this morning, after all, nothing ever happens to him. Well, nothing interesting or good ever happened to him. He swore to himself that if that day went to the shit-pit, he would have made very good friends with the barrel of his gun, whether it was a coward’s way out or not.

 

He followed Mike into a lab at the far end of the corridor and he let the door close behind him.

 

"It's a lot different from my day."

 

Was the first thing he said. He had to have said something, after all he had been quiet pretty much the entire time he had been here, and he had to say something. Just to ensure Mike that he still had a voice and he still had his manners. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed another bloke in the lab, looking like he's working on something and John couldn't help the way his breath cought in his throat at the sight of the dark curls hanging against such pale skin. Once he noticed him, he shifted into his soldier mode, and stood as such. His leg completely far from his mind, the only thing he could think of then was _'who is this bloke and can I get one?'_ He mentally shook himself as he saw the other man's lips move, he was talking and John should have been taken some  notice. Ignoring how the voice sounded, ignoring how he held himself _('damn, he's tall')_ and ignoring everything about him, John just focused on what he was saying. _'Idiot! Phone!'_ He was asking to borrow a phone and Mike didn't have his. He shifted slightly so he could reach for his own, handing it over with a calm tone to his voice, which actually surprised him. But the look that the man gave him made him shiver just a little. He just managed to catch Mike giving the tall bloke his name, but what he didn't expect was the matter of fact way he asked the question:

 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

 

 _'Wait, hang on. How..?'_ John's mind was going into a frenzy, and all that came out of his mouth was, "Sorry?"

 

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Replies the tall, black curled bloke handing back John's phone. John still couldn't understand it, if he knew about his service, why did he have to spring it onto him like that? John instantly stiffened when he pocketed his phone; he was getting himself ready to reply and cleared his head as well as his throat. Obviously he had been told about him, so he didn't have to get too worked up.

 

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did you..." John was confused, stunned even though he was rationalizing with his mind that someone must have told this man about him. But before he can finish, the said man was rattling off to ... Molly was is? And something about small lips? He really should have been paying attention, but all he could do was to think of his battle field and how close he became to relieving his mark and even dying. Now this guy was talking about a violin. Was that for Molly?

 

"I'm sorry, what?"

 

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."

 

 _What the hell is going on here!?_ "Are you—? You told him about me?" John asked when he turned to Mike. John was starting to feel like a dog on show somehow, and it was quite uncomfortable and ... Something else all at the same time.

 

"Not a word." Was heard from the friend who had piled on the weight and John knew how truthful Mike can be, and looking at him now, he knew in the back of his mind that his friend was telling the truth. Now this was starting to scare John, his mind was screaming at him and he stiffened a little more. ' _If this guy, this obscene and pale and tall and beautiful guy knew about the war; what else did he know? Did he know of the secret? The truth?'_ The most logical part of John's mind was telling him  **no** , but everything else, everything that had made him act like a  Normal, was screaming at him, lashing into his deepest fears. **_'HE KNOWS!'_**

 

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" Was all that he managed to say and he was quite surprised to hear that he sounded rather calm and collected considering the frenzy state his thoughts were in at that very moment.

 

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

 

 _'Logical'',_ John thought and his mind was beginning to calm down a little, just another thing to get cleared up, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

 

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." It seemed to John that this guy, whoever he was, was avoiding that particular subject and it had just made his thoughts spiral that little bit more. The lanky git was beginning to get ready to leave and nothing was sorted; the tall prat was putting on a longcoat, wrapping a scalf around his neck and he was beginning to pull on a pair of gloves. Mike was long forgotten like a little lump on a stole, John wanted to know how some stranger knew about his war. If there was a logical explanation for it then maybe his secret was safe, maybe this bloke knew nothing about him at all.

 

"Is that it?" John was clawing for answers, maybe a change of tactic was in order.

 

"Is that what?" _'_ _Well, that stopped the too skinny and wat too handsome git in his tracks'_ , John thought with a small hint of pride.

 

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." Now he began to change his tactic. John had needed and wanted answers from the other.

 

"Problem?"

 

 _ **'YES!!'**_ John's mind had screamed. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." He was desperately trying to stop the guy from leaving him hanging like that; desperate, acred for his secrete and at the end of his tether. _What else could he know?_

 

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He was at the door now, ready to leave it at that. John was just a mess, outside he looked calm but he was stunned to silence. His mind went over everything that the strange git had blurted out about him. Some of it was spot on but his brother!? He had never had a brother. Maybe, just maybe, the guy had no clue about him, maybe he did the wrong research and Mike did actually mention John to him at some point. After all, they kept in touch at times while he was ... Working. Just when John was about to go after the guy and request the address (he might as well take a look, what else is there to do?) he popped back in;

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

 

John was at a loss for words. 'W _hat the hell had just happened?'_

 

Mike saw that his friend was shocked and he just replied; "Yeah. He's always like that." John could only just nod and limp for the door. Before leaving, he turned back to Mike.

 

"Are you sure you didn't mention me? Not once? He wouldn't have known about the war and what happened if you didn't and you've been the only one I kept in touch with since .... You know .." He cleared his throat loudly, hoping Mike got the hint. He really didn't want to talk about the night his world was crushed.

 

"John, I swear. I never said a word." Mike shrugged, picked up a vial of .. Something and gave it a curious glance before putting it down and looked back towards John. He was smiling apologetically, his eyes glistened mischievously. "Sherlock is like that with everybody. He notices things and he would probably know what I had for breakfast this morning if he had his attention on me. Look," He gave a small sigh and turned and gave John a wink, when he saw that John was still looking confused and awe struck, Mike couldn't help but smile a little more. It was quite amazing to finally see that look on John Watson's face. "Don't worry about it mate, he's not all bad. He would make for an interesting flat mate that's for sure, although I would wish you good luck if you decide to take him up on it. He can be quite arrogant and very dismissive of people’s feelings. Just a heads up you know, if he finds out about the parts he got wrong."

 

Mike was up and placed a friendly hand to John's good shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. They left the lab together, Mike had a lecture and John just wanted to go back home. He had nothing else to do now and now that his mind was full of the tall and hansdsome, but strange, Sherlock; John no longer had thoughts for his gun.

 

That evening, John looked Sherlock up on the internet and found his website; **'The Science of Deduction'**. After reading it John couldn't do anything but stare. The things he could do, or what he said he could do, sounded amazing and impossible. No one could possibly identify an airline pilot by his thumb or something like that. Maybe he should see the flat, it had to be better than the tip he was currently living in any way, and he was going to bring this website up with Sherlock. Hoping that it was all an exaggeration, because if it wasn't and Sherlock could actually identify someone's job by their thumb, then what would happen if he can identify a Blending by their thumbs?

 

"Well" John said out loud. "It could be nothing. It could be something. It could even be interesting. There's only one way to find out." And that settled it, John was going to have a look at the flat with Sherlock tomorrow, just to see what would happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Bonfoi for pointing out where I can improve and for giving me a few pointers xx
> 
>  
> 
> Also huge thanks to Chanel for also pointing out mistakes and giving me pointers. xx


	4. The Day In The Life Of A Blending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets one of his own and a meeting follows. As well as meeting Sherlock and being invited to a case. This day is busy for one John Watson and he just can’t help but feel excited.

John at last got some sleep that night, no nightmares and not waking with chronic pains; John felt utterly refreshed and ready to face the day. In the back of his mind, he hoped that the day would be the last day he ever spent in that shit tip of a bedsit and hopefully he would be spending the final nights of his life in a much more comfortable home, even if it was with an impossible flat mate, someone who must have obviously over exaggerate his abilities. John sighed, he was already packed and ready to leave at a moment’s notice but the flat viewing was not untill that evening and he was already up and had nothing much he needed to do. He had no appointment to meet his damn therapist and he had no other pressing meetings, so he just went for a walk, grabbed a coffee and he did actually want to check the job market, see what was going for him but that never actually happened considering the inner-pull he got when sitting in the coffee shop that morning.

 

It was strange, he had never felt that sudden urge before, he didn’t quite understand it actually but he knew what it was. There was another Blending in the coffee shop, he could feel it. That was one of the things about him, he knew, he could feel another Blending’s pull when they were within close proximity with another. His head snapped up as he scanned around; after so many years of trying to be a Normal, he got this fucking pull and he was not quite sure how he truly felt about it. Yes he was intrigued and curious to meet another like him, but he hated the fact that he was once again reminded that he was not normal, he was part of a dying race, and not only that, but he was the last of his kind. Well, in a sense that he is the last born.

 

At the back of the café, John saw him. He looked strong, as well as quite handsome and for the second time that day, John felt an instant attraction. He cursed in his mind about this, as he knew inwardly that this was because of his damn biology and the need for them to mate together. He had taken Blending Biology in medical school; you never know when it wiould come in handy. He understood that there are not many of them left and the link between one another was becoming desperately strong with the need to reproduce and keep their blood line going. John thought that it was all bull-shit and speculation, not even the Blendings understand their biology as well as they could do. All they knew was what had been passed down from prophecies and scriptures through the Holding Hall. John shook his head, buried his false attraction deep down and left the café, he didn’t want it; he just wanted to be normal. His world had collapsed so many times because of his stupid curse and idiotic enflamed mark on his fucking arse. He clutched his cane tightly as he made his way onto the street and headed off in a random direction, he didn't want it, he didn’t need it and he certainly couldn't stand it. He hadn'tsn’t even used his so called abilities, not once had he placed thoughts into another’s mind, not once had he influenced someone’s dreams; that to John was an invasion of another person’s privacy and why would he want to do that? He certainly didn’t want to be impregnated and he had never blended into the background. What was the point, he wanted to be normal. Even if it would have come in handy in the army, there was no way he wanted to bring attention to himself like that, it would have been worse than being shot.

 

After a few minutes walking, John had sensed that he was being followed by that damn Blending. There was no way he was going to live this down or lose the one following him so he slipped down into an alley way and waited. He was already forming a plan in his head; something that would have the other to leave him alone, after all, it was not unheard of that Blendings wanted to be apart from the others. It was one way to keep them hidden and unnoticed. After a couple of more minuets the Blending tailing John came into the alley way and moved down to the shadows where John was standing. John couldn’t help but notice how strong the other had looked and it had almost made John wish he had brought his gun. As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he discarded it, there was only ten of them left now, why would they kill each other?

 

“Come, there is a particularly important meeting, all that is left must attend. We’ve been searching for as many of us as we can find.” The Blending's voice was grainy; like he had swallowed sandpaper earlier that day and John had felt a wave of fear and nausea flow through him but what he couldn't quite understand at that moment was why he had felt like that. John had never been more calm.

 

John finally understood that the Blending opposite him was feeling these things and so he sent his own feelings back towards the other man. He sent the feelings of confusion and misunderstanding to the other; Blendings shared some link that allowed them to share thoughts and emotions to one another. It allowed them to communicate in tense situations. Well, that was the form of it back in the days when they were many. The man just turned to John, wide eyed and open mouth. Shocked and the idea that he can’t believe John doesn’t know.

 

“Don’t you read the papers? Five of us have already been found dead. Murdered but not drained, mark on show for the world to see. Police are saying suicides but we all know different. Can you not even sense it; the danger, the dwindling numbers, the pain? We must meet up, it is imperative that you join. Follow me, now. Come, come. Quickly.”

 

The man never slowed for John and his damn stupid leg. It was true that he hadn’t actually read the papers; he didn’t feel the need to. After all, he was just going through the motions day by day and there was nothing else he could do; well, that would all change depending on how that evening would go. He had also felt the sudden pain and danger and never fully understood where it had come from, but he had put it down to his PTSD from the war and the nightmares of the place. He never linked it in with his own people. He never felt the need to. So John had followed the Blending and he suddenly felt very unsure of himself. If someone was getting rid of Blendings then someone must know who they are. But how? was the problem. They were a secrete race of people, no one but themselves and their families knew what they are. He could not understand it and he didn’t think that he would anytime soon. But he never stopped thinking about it as he followed the Blending into an old building and down towards the cellar.

 

It was dark and damp and there were a few quiet mumblings when John entered the room. An overhead light swung and casted shadows among the others, the feeling of being linked and belonging here was getting so strong that John was struggling to make himself feel Normal. Again he inwardly hated this; it kept reminding him of his difference to the rest of the world and he hated it! He would never be normal and he wwould never be treated as normal, not by these people. He shifted and made his way to the back and out of the way, giving of the fact that he didn't want to be disturbed and so he wasn’t but he did listen. The Blending that found him made his voice known to the group but not once giving his name, no one did. Part of the secrecy and protected one’s life John thought. The meeting went on for hours with the head Blending going over things again and again, indicating how wrong the police where, he knew a couple of the victims and not once did they seem desperate for escape because of their secrete. In fact, he went on as far as to say that they enjoyed who they were and were mischievous about it.

 

At this John understood and he shifted forward, his cane making a noise to interrupt the key speaker and he addressed the group. He cleared his throat and stood tall, shifting into Captain John Watson, medical staff of the army. It felt good to finally return to his old path, a path that helped him forget and be more normal than ever. But now, he was using it to look over the group, his people, dwindling in numbers and noticed that at least five were missing.

 

“If the police say that these are suicides then obviously the one doing this is trained in understanding drugs and chemicals." That got people to shut up their mutterings when they heard him step up. John had never felt that his life had more purpose than it did at that very moment but he still resented what he was and he made sure to get that point across as well as to warn the group to keep safe. "Either that or he has been instructed on how to get the Blending to administrate the drug themselves. Maybe he talks to them, maybe he uses something against them, I don’t know. But what I do understand now is that because it has not been made clear on where these people where found and how; then the murderer is part of ‘The Collective’" John paused when he heard the gasp of shock. "Don’t give me that, you have all been thinking about it. Who else would want to rid the world of us in some way and **no.** They were not drained but made to commit suicide. Which is different yes but it gives us one idea; The Collective is looking for the one the prophecy talks about. The one that would end us all." John breathed deeply then. He understood that The Collective were after him and he didn't want these people to die because of what he was, it just wasn't right or fair. The only thing he could do was to walk away after he showed the people before him that he didn't care and he had hoped that it would make them forget him and also help then to remain safe. he sent of his emotions of concern and a need for them to stay safe. So he did what he could think of at that point of time. He had lied.

"I for one think it is high time that you lot get your act together and run. If you end up coming across the one who is doing this then run. This is no time for heroics. And one more thing: I am sick and tired of this life the mark has brought on us all and I do not want a part of it so do not look for me, do not involve me and do not get so hung up on everything. Good evening and good bye.”

 

John finally spoke his mind and he had left the rest of them there as he walked away, praying silently that they would be alright. He knew what the collective where and what it means now that the other Blendings where murdered. They must have been looking for him; if the others were not drained but had left their mark on show then they must be looking for a specific mark. He was lost in thought as he had walked around the town until the evening came. He was trying to come up with an idea of who would be able to get a Blending off the street and have them take a deadly drug that would kill them. What would he talk about? Why would they feel the need to not run away? Those thoughts kept running through his head as he made his way to Baker Street, just in time as well. He had been walking for hours and all he wanted to do was sit down and have a cuppa; he didn’t care if the flat was a mess. He was about to knock on the door when he heard Sherlock behind him, just getting out of a cab with that ridiculously long cote and black curls and sharp cheek bones and …. He was holding out his hand!! John mentally kicked himself and shook the other man’s hand quickly.

 

“Ah … Mister Holmes.”

 

“Sherlock, please.” The other replied, released John’s hand and went to go and knock on the black door of 221 Baker Street. John stood behind him, glanced over the building quickly, the thoughts of the day far from his mind.

 

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.” He said almost to himself, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. His gaze fell back onto the tall man and he stepped that little bit closer, his cane making a loud noise against the pavement. His leg really hurt from all that walking and now he just wanted to sit down and chill the hell out.

 

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

 

 _Wait, what?_ “Sorry... you stopped her husband being executed?”

 

“Oh, no, I ensured it.” Sherlock replied, smirking lightly as John’s mouth hung open, just a little. He was gaping and he knew it but did that man just admit to getting his landlady’s husband executed? And she owes him for that!? Before he could ask questions the door opened and an old lady appeared. Well, not too old but enough to be someone’s grandmother. And that was the first thought John had of her, grandmother material. Sherlock was now introducing them as they headed into the flat; thankfully Sherlock was accumulating for John’s limp, eyeing it curiously. He had mentioned that it was psychosomatic and John inwardly hoped that he wouldn’t start asking questions about it. He never wanted to explain the curse his mard had left upon him. And as if on cue, a dull ache throbbed through his leg as he bundled into the living room.

 

 

“Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.” John mumbled, anything to get Sherlock’s gaze away from his leg and most importantly his mark. After the day he had, he didn’t want anyone finding out what he has learned so far, after all, he seems to be targeted from a murderer that the police are not looking into because they look like suicides. Anyway, what was the point, and wasn’t Sherlock saying something? Ah, he’s already moved in, so this rubbish must be his. And that slipped past his lips before he even realised and Sherlock began picking things up while John slumped into the chair, thankful for finally sitting down.

 

“That's a skull.” John pointed out as he noticed the thing on the mantel piece as he watch Sherlock rush about like a child on a sugar high. Obviously wanting to make an expression, but why would the guy have a skull?

 

“Friend of mine." Sherlock paused to look at the skull and then back to John with a smirk, "When I say friend...”

 

“What do you think, then, Dr Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms.” The grandma landlady was back again. This was how John saw her from then on, and he couldn't help it. Wait, is she implying …?

 

“Of course we'll be needing two.” John stated simply before he could finish his train of thought.

 

“Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones.” She replied before making the way to the kitchen. John just stared, slightly bemused at that and really couldn’t think of a reply. He kept out of the so called scalding she was giving Sherlock about the state of the kitchen. He decided to go in for a conversation with Sherlock; best get the idea out of the way about that website of his, just another thing that has been plaguing his mind.

 

 

“I looked you up on the internet last night.”

 

“Anything interesting?” Was it just John, or had Sherlock looked a bit smug about that?

 

“Found your website. The Science of Deduction.” He replied as calmly as possible, finally getting to the point of the discussion.

 

“What did you think?” Right, now he was defiantly smug and something else. It was as if he was looking for recommendation or waiting for something … John couldn’t quite figure it out so he went for the obvious,

 

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?”

 

“Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone.” Sherlock answered too quickly. Must be some form of defence really but still … it was amazing how he did that.

 

“How?”, John had asked, hopefully looking for some explanation. He just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t see right through him and right to his real status in the world.

 

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Five exactly the same.” Mrs Hudson sounded like she was a little put off about being ignored, but hidden by the sound of being overly polite. John had gathered the paper now and began reading about them, all of them the same, exactly the same drug was used, they all held a mark for being a Blending but because the drug was self-administered and there was clearly no outward sign that they were drained or forced then they did look like suicides. But John felt differently and began to think that the police where idiots, that was until Sherlock spoke up about there being another one but different this time. John’s interest was piqued as a man came bounding up, asking Sherlock for help, well almost begging for it.

 

John just watched the interaction take place and waited for the other man to leave. He could see Sherlock was etching to say something, bottling something up, he could feel it. This was the first time he had felt a Normal’s feelings and it was weird. Well, he had been avoiding sensing things for fear of being caught out and in light of recent events of the day, it seemed that he was giving in to his secret side more and more but mainly around this man and that really didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

 

“Brilliant! Yes! Six serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food.” Sherlock was over joyed and it was bouncing off of him in waves, John couldn’t help but smile at that as he saw Sherlock leave calling out about food and cuppas. Once he was gone John looked around the flat and sunk down a little more, slightly put off with the idea that he wasn’t going. Didn’t Sherlock say he needed an assistant but no one there would work for him? If only Sherlock would return and ask him, he would go. Just to see why Sherlock was excited so much and what all the fuss was about. Thinking about that he barley registed Mrs Hudson talking but he did catch that thing about his leg and suddenly he was annoyed;

 

“Damn my leg!” He yelled but instantly regretted it. “Sorry, I'm so sorry... It's just sometimes this bloody thing...”  
He began to think about how it would be if Sherlock returned and invited John along with him, absently asking for tea and biscuits while he gazed back at the story a thought about being involved. He would help catch this person and then he would be safe. He would help, no matter what, if only Sherlock returned for him.

“You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor.” Sherlock had come back and John jumped a little.

 

“Yes.” He stood up and faced the other one. Rattling off little answers to how good he was, how much he had seen and by god he wanted to see more. Just ask me, he kept thinking over and over again, never leaving Sherlock’s beautiful gaze.

 

“Want to see some more?” Asked Sherlock, moving to step away from the door as he noticed in John’s body language that he was ready to leave at a moment’s notice and he also kept thinking of ways for the doctor to lose his cane, but that would come later. He smiled brightly as the doctor almost jumped at the chance and followed him downstairs, just as eagerly as himself. Mrs Hudson was out, shocked slightly at the pair of them going, maybe she was just worried for John’s reaction to this, but Sherlock was too excited to be bothered by it. If John was put off then so be it, he had a serial murderer to catch and catch him he shall.

 

“Impossible suicides? Six of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!” He took a hold of her face, bundling with excitement and kissed her head before turning to the door and to John.

 

“Look at you, all happy. It's not decent.” Ah, Mrs Hudson pointing out that he was excited about this to John mainly, but John can see for himself. Anyone could and John was standing calmly out the door and smiling himself. His body language showed that he was just as excited as he was, maybe he would decide to stay after all. And Sherlock will have more time to observe this John Watson and see what it is that he is hiding, because it is obvious that he’s hiding something. He seems too interested in this case not to be. But that will come later. He bundled after John, calling back to Mrs Hudson, knowing John will hear and giving him an insight to himself which he has never cared to do before;

 

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on! Taxi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see I have changed some of the ideas from the show, just so it can fit in with my plot type story thing. Don't worry, we are getting there, soon.
> 
> Up dates will be as quick as I can as normal.
> 
> Comments and Kudos welcomed and thank you for staying with me so far. More to come soon <3


	5. A Study In Suits -  Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John to see a so called suicide, this where the things become to be noticed...

Sherlock must have gad some weird, impossible power of catching a cab; he seemed to manage it in no time at all, while John was actually waiting a few minutes outside trying to hail one. It had started to get dark as they climbed into the back seat, Sherlock trailing off the address as he sat quietly on his phone. John just watched the scenery passing him as he let his mind drift off over the day’s events. To him, it had been fucked up and hellish, he hated it. Right up until he was asked to accompany a strange mad man to a crime scene. Surely John was going mad a bit himself, he was actually getting excited, even though this would be another one of his own. The only thing he managed to catch on with the press was that these males are connected by the fact that they were hidden Blendings and the last of their kind. It has been speculated that they are having a hard time ‘blending in’ with the Normals and have found the only way out. By injesting poison, which John finds is complete bull shit! Even though he may have hated being what he was, he knew the others wouldn’t do that, he could just feel it. Something went wrong somewhere in their day to day lives but he wasn’t sure what. He sighed softly and turned to look at Sherlock, still flicking through his phone. He had questions, but how would he go about it? How much did this man know? And how in the bloody hell can he do such a thing?

 

“OK, you’ve got questions...” Sherlock broke through John’s thoughts but never once looked up from his phone. This man must be some sort of weird mind reader thing. It was the stupidest explanation but it fit.

 

“Yeah, where are we going?” _Clever John. Nice one_ , he mentally scalded himself.

 

“Crime scene. Next?” Sherlock was sounding a bit board. It was like he knew that John had better questions than that and he wasn’t as numb as he sounded right now. The conversation carried on, John asking questions, Sherlock actually answering them with a roll of his eyes and a bored tone. John had to get this steered into how he could possibly know that and finally that part came, at last he could hear just who told Sherlock all that about him.

 

“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised.”

 

“Yes, how **_DID_** you know?” _Answer, don’t skip around it you idiot!_ Finally, John will find out who exactly has been spreading some form of information on him and how Sherlock managed to use that to impress. Surely he didn’t know from just meeting right away; right?

 

“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. 'But your conversation...' Bit different from my day...said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, obvious. 'Your face is tanned... 'But no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. 'Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand - 'so it's at least partly psychosomatic. 'That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic -' wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

“You said I had a therapist.” John was dumbfounded. He saw all that just from a quick glance? That’s impossible.

 

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp; of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Mm? Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you're looking for a flat share. You wouldn't buy this - it's a gift. 'Scratches. Not one, many over time -'it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already.”

 

“The engraving?” Just having enough time to answer, well question maybe. He was starting to go into a small state of shock. This was amazing, brilliant and scaring the shit out of John. What else can this man see?

 

“Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live - unlikely you've got an extended family, not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, it's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he's given it away. If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left HER. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help - that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or don't like his drinking.”

 

 

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

 

 

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks round it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you were right.”

 

 

“I was right? Right about what?” Now John was defiantly sure that no one had told Sherlock anything about him. He didn’t even know about the loss of his family, he still seems to think that they’re around, or he thinks Harry is.

 

“The police don't consult amateurs.”

 

“That...was amazing.” Which it was and John was till trying to get over it.

 

“Do you think so?”

 

Was it just John or did Sherlock sound a little unsure of himself? For the first time since John has met him, Sherlock was sounding slightly unsure. “That's not what people normally say.”

 

“What do people normally say?”

 

“Piss off!”

John couldn't help but giggle at that and Sherlock looked at him like he was mad but still, there was a twinkle in his eye and a real smile on his face. Just as the taxi slows to a stop and Sherlock reaches over to pay, he mutter to John; “Did I get anything wrong?”

 

___

 

JOhn went stiff only for a second before climbing out of the cab but it was enough for Sherlock to notice and he instantly knew he had got something wrong, but nothing small. This was a big something wrong. He followed John out of the cab and went into step with him, obviously it was slower than his usual pace but he wanted to observe John, he wanted to see what he got wrong but John was full of emotion and Sherlock just didn’t understand that and so he waited, waited to see if John told him. Then he did.

 

“Harry was a drinker yes, we didn’t get along much because of that but Clara, her wife, calmed her down loads. I kept the phone with me because Harry left it behind that night and it is all I have left of what I could have had. Clara, Harry, my mother and father, all were taken by a drunk driver. All I have is the phone.” John was stiff, straight backed and controlling his body, getting into military mode. He sighed and quickly changed the subject.

 

“What am I doing here Sherlock, really? What am I doing here?” Sherlock could tell that this was a sore subject for John, he understood that Harry was in fact his sister and married, of cause she was, but the way he spoke, in past tense about them, shows he had lost them and had came to terms with that a while ago. Sherlock didn’t have time to dwell on the puzzle that was John Watson; he was making his way into the building, having John limp over behind him. Sherlock lets his eyes graze over his leg as he makes introductions, just after happily deducing Anderson’s affair with Donovan (made his day worth it just a little bit more), he also thought that it was high time to get John over that limp, there would be no way he would keep up if he used the cane a lot and Sherlock actually liked him. Even as they just met, what settled it for him was his exclamation of his deductions. No one had ever done that before and it was interesting.

 

 

He shrugged it off and led the way upstairs, slipped into his long strides and became increasingly excited once more and what he saw in the room entices him. A man was lying face down, one hand closed tightly, likely holding onto some paper, he was dressed immaculately in his suit, dark navy; close to black, possibly a blue shirt and tie. One hand relaxed, showing increases of where a handle of a case rested. Married, ring showing age of ten years, but scratched and dirty, inside is clean so he has had a string of lovers. He looks soaked, almost. No umbrella, too windy to be used probably, collar of suite had been turned up. Sherlock smiled despite himself, looking up and finally noticed others in the room. He had zoned them out to gather as much data as possible and this one was fantastic. Unlike all the others before him, his mark is uncovered but he would bet anything that it was there.

 He beckoned John forward and noticed him stiffen again, and Sherlock sweept a gaze over him but the hesitation was gone before anyone could notice. Well anyone other than Sherlock. He got close as John knelt down beside the body, his face slightly pale but other than that, he had slipped into his military training again as it seemed. ' _Must be something like a glove_ ', Sherlock thought, but he can’t spend too much time on that. John is talking.

 

 

“Well? What am I doing here?”

 

“Helping me make a point.” Obviously.

 

“I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

 

“Yes but this is more fun.” He smirked lightly, his insides were giving him that fuzziness again, the thrill of a case, the intensity of a mystery. He couldn’t deny it, it was fun and he can see that John is having just as much fun as well.

 

“Fun? There's a man lying dead.” John sounded a little annoyed at that and Sherlock tilted his head only slightly, he couldn't understand why John didn't admit that this was at least a little exciting.

 

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I _WAS_ hoping you'd go deeper.” Sherlock snapped, becoming slightly annoyed at that. He knew John was smart and there was just something else, something hidden. There was brain power behind the charade of idiocy.

 

“Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on his own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on him. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs.”

 

“You know what it was, you've read the papers.” _Don’t be so obtuse and stupid!! Come on man!!_

 

“Well, he's one of the suicides. The sixth...?” There was something in John’s eyes that could be described as a slight fear and Sherlock saw his gaze drift over the man’s buttocks. And yes, there it was, finally John is using his mind.

 

“Sherlock - two minutes, I said, I need anything you got.” Lestrade finally spoke up and John stood watching him. Everything Sherlock thought was gone and he got that twinkle in his eye again.

 

“Victim is in his late 30s. Professional person, going by his clothes - I'm guessing the media, going by the frankly alarming immaculate suit. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London one night from the size of his case.”

 

“Case?”

 

“Case, yes. He's been married at least ten years, but not happily. He's had a string of lovers but none of them knew he was married and yes, I am willing to say he has the mark of the Blendings.” Oh this felt good, he gave a quick chance look over to John, noticing him looking over the said man against the floor, over where he knew a mark lay and up towards his clenched hand and open hand. There was a glaze look in his eyes; could he possibly be? But … more data is needed and not right now.

 

“Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up...”

 

“His wedding ring…” Sherlock interrupted quickly, hoping to get John’s attention. “Ten years old at least. The rest of his appearance is clearly immaculate, but not his wedding ring. The inside is shinier than the outside. The only polishing it gets is when he works it off his finger. It's not for work, look at his nails. He doesn't work with his hands so who **_DOES_** he remove his rings for? Not **_ONE_** lover, he'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that long so more likely a string of them.”

 

“It's brilliant.” His gaze fell back to John, only realising that once again he had zoned out and was drifting. The praise actually felt quite good, he smiled and turned back to Lestrade.

 

“Cardiff?”

 

“It's obvious, isn't it?”

 

“It's not obvious to me.” Wait? But you can obviously … seriously? Is all that Sherlock can think about right now. He was so sure John would understand, but he will spell it out if he needs to.

 

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring. His jacket - it's slightly damp, he's been in heavy rain the last few hours - no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under his coat collar is damp too. He's turned it up against the wind. Not just wind, strong wind. We know from his case that he was intending to stay overnight but he can't have traveled more than two or three hours because his jacket still hasn't dried. So - where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff.”

 

“It's fantastic!” Again, he turned to John, that praise and the honesty in his face feels amazing and worthwhile. He wasn't even sure why.

 

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

 

“Sorry, I'll shut up.” John shifted, his gaze lifting up over to the man’s enclosed fist.

 

“No, it's...fine.”

 

“Why do you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade had yet again interrupted. He hadn't even gotten to his note in the hand. Everything that was different was that there was a clue to be seen. All these stupid interruptions where dragging him away from that. But also, why would Lestrade be asking about that case. It should be around here somewhere.

 

“Yes, where is it? He must have had a phone or an organiser” He began looking around, once again dodging John whose eyes were beginning to get comically wide. He would have laughed if he had time. As he got close to the enclosed hand, he bent down and pried open said hand, revealing a scrap of paper. Or rather a picture. Sherlock gasped, or rather sighed and looked over it, handing it to Lestrade. “Find out who that kid is and where’s that case?”

 

“So how do you know he had a suitcase?”

 

“His right hand, open and relaxed compared to the enclosed left hand which held that photo. The skin is slightly dented and callous from holding the handle, and judging by the weight of it, it would have been a small case but a little bigger than his working case, could only be an overnight bag so we know he was staying one night. Where is it, what have you done with it?”

 

“There wasn't a case.” Lestrade had shrugged and John looked ready to burst, watching his every movement like a hawk. But no case, it was perfect!

 

“But they take the poison themselves, they chew and swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.” Sherlock was running on pure adrenaline now, even though they may be connected by their marks of being a Blending, there was something else going on here. This killer had gotten rid of six of the final ten Blendings already and he won’t stop until … Sherlock paused at the bottom of the stairs. Oh this is perfect! “It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings. We've got a serial killer. There's always something to look forward to. Come on, where is his case? Did he eat it? Someone else was here, and they took his case. So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car. Oh... Oh!” (He is hardly registering what anyone is saying now, he’s speaking loud enough so that they can hear him, but he is in a world of his own now). “Serial killers always make mistakes, it is only a matter of time and .. Oh ho!!, we have it. All the victims are Blendings yes, but he is searching for one in particular and he won’t stop until he gets it. But now he’s made a big mistake and this is where it gets interesting.”

 

He’s just about to leave the place and run off on his own when Lestrade’s call shouted him back. **_What mistake!? Are these all idiots!?_**

 

“Look! Really look. Where is his case! Look at his suit!! and find that kid!!!” With that Sherlock was gone and excited and feeling quite hyper. He could have this case cracked by the end of the night, that was the best part of it. The thrill of being right but could it really be so easy? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try and get the episode to fit around my idea of Blendings and I tried to get it all in one chapter, but it came to too many words and I had to split it up.  
> Just a warning, the changes for episode 2 (Blind banker) will not be in too much detail but would probably be in a chapter sumerary, as well as the beginning of episode 3. the main bulk should be when Jim has John in episode three and we should be there sonn ... stay tuned, we are getting there ;)


	6. A Study in Suits - Part Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is closed and then finally the revelation that hits John harder than he expected.

That evening had found John being left behind while Sherlock was off doing fuck knows what, fuck knows where. Even as he tried to walk along the street to get a taxi, he was picked up in a car and propositioned by a ‘concerned party’ over Sherlock. Not like that was going to happen, the vibe he got was concern but also something that went about it in such a way. He wasn’t convinced that the guy was Sherlock’s enemy, no matter what either of them had said and over the course of the evening, he can just breathe a sigh of relief that Sherlock has not found out anything about his true self. But that man in the warehouse had giving him a knowing look, a rise of the eyebrow and a silent question or acknowledgement. That was quite stressful, John got the feeling that his secret won’t be hidden forever, not if that man was concerned but he still denied spying on Sherlock. After that so called friendly meeting, John had returned to Sherlock, sent a text then went on a stakeout, and now he is running over London’s roof tops chasing a damn taxi. But he cannot deny that it is exhilarating and he has missed the adrenaline rush. God, he had really missed that war, maybe Mister Suit with telling eyes was right, and welcome back in deed.

 

After the run, they found that they had been chasing the wrong taxi and they were running once more. John had time to reflect upon Sherlock’s conclusions and once it was spelt out to him, it was actually logical, even with his sense of something that he had had during the time over that room. It was horrid and he hated it but it washed over him and he couldn’t avoid it. As soon as he stepped into the room he felt it in the atmosphere, this one had fought, and had spilled out all he could in the air, just in case another of his own had walked in. that level of concentration when he was dying, clutching a picture of his son was immense, it was almost too much but John had handled it. John had heard talking in the air, just slight mutterings but he got the jest, he also heard as it grew, the guy shouting and cursing, showing his mark even though it would be the death of him. Then he had felt a choice, which ended up being fatal for the Blending and he has reached the same idea as Sherlock; the killer forces them to show their mark, as he is looking for the unlocked symbol and if they do not show it then they are forced to take the poison and yet both do not understand how that works. Not yet.

 

“OK... That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing...I've ever done.”

 

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

 

They were both out of breath and couldn’t help but giggle, Sherlock was already saying he was moving in without even asking him, but then again, John was certainly moving in. even when he was given his cane back and he realised his leg didn’t actually hurt no more was a definite certainty. He was home. But alas, his joy was short lived as they rushed up stairs and behold, a drugs bust.

 

“Seriously? This guy - a junkie? Have you met him?”

John just really couldn't believe it, he has known the guy for a day and he knew that Sherlock was no drug addict. He found it quite laughable to be honest and then there were the eyes, human eyes and he had drifted again. Yes, he could see that it would be interesting and something to keep him on his toes, but it wouldn't put him off this place. He turned his attention back to Lestrade after he mentioned they found the kid, he had actually died and his name was Riley. Sherlock couldn’t understand why the death of the child so long ago would affect the man at his last moments. He clung to the picture, hidden it and his phone wasn’t around and John just felt that that was … well, a bit not good. Mrs Hudson is running about muttering about some taxi driver and John is standing in the background trying to get his own mind around this. After a few moments Sherlock had blurted out that ‘Riley’ was a password which enabled them to find the phone which was planted on the killer by the dead Blending. Despite what people say, Blendings are smart and resourceful, John couldn’t help but feel a sharp feeling of happiness at that. it is true that they have been said to be stupid and irate and spiteful for hiding their selves away and not giving them up for observation so people could understand them more. John felt happy to know that Sherlock respected them in some way, it chipped off some of the rough edges for it if it ever came out about him.

 

Then Sherlock had gone in a cab and left. Just left, no explanation or anything, John had refreshed the search for the phone and the police had left. When the dot had moved John had clicked instantly; Sherlock never rang a taxi but had gone in one and now the phone was moving. He had asked who hunted in the middle of a crowd unseen. Taxi drivers, all the Blendings had been in a taxi. But their identity was a secret, but John later understood that the cabbie had mentioned something very degrading about a Blending that would cause them to stick up for themselves and reveal their identity. As well as the sponsor giving him the information on who they were and how to find them without causing too much attention to himself. This information fed to him over lunch had given him a feeling of insecurity and slight fear. If a man willing to pay another to kill off as many of the final Blendings as possible, then what would that mean for him. The one who is being hunted, the one who is being searched for and the reason why the others are dying? Even finding out that Mister Suit with telling eyes was actually Sherlock’s older brother in the government didn’t deflate his fear. It only increased it, what if they were all against him and they all knew and they were using him? But he refused to believe that as the feeling he was getting from Sherlock right now as they ate was something very close to worry and concern. Which was strange as they hadn’t known each other for too long.

 

 

“John,” He had started, looking over John and trapping him completely in that sharp gaze of his. John couldn’t speak even though he wanted to, he knew what was coming, he could feel it and he couldn’t say anything about it. “I know.”

 

That’s all he said and John had look at him, mouth slightly open and nodded once. He put his fork down and played with his hands, finally letting it sink in but only a little. “I trust you” He had managed and they grabbed their coats and made their way home. Obviously they wanted to talk, Sherlock may have questions, and now here he was, sat in his chair and waiting for Sherlock to start.

 

“John, I may understand what you are. But tell me, are you the last one?” Sherlock had leaned forward towards John just slightly and John focused, turned his gaze over John and seeing if he could trust him, trying to see his intentions. And then he felt it, an overwhelming sensation of upmost trust and the strongest friendship, no Blending has ever felt a connection so strong, or so he thought. Finally he nodded, his anxiety finally shifted to trust and John relaxed. _Now, here we go_ , he thinks, _this is where all the shit starts and the curse takes hold_. Even though Sherlock is the only one who knows other than his own kind and his long gone family, John still felt a little uneasy about the revelation through dinner. Someone else knows …. But who?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter here, sorry about that. The next few chapters will be short as well and then the fun really starts. 
> 
> More coming soon.


	7. Growing friendship and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft drops off a file and John goes for a walk. Nothing can go wrong ... Right?

It has been a few days since the last case that of a Chinese smuggling ring. It was complicated at first, if only slightly but then it became easier. It was only a coincidence that the two people who were killed in the idea that they stole the valuable pin were Blendings so Sherlock does not have to worry about John too much, right? Now that this was over with he can finally get down to figuring out what or who this Moriarty was, and why he was after John and even if he or they knew that they were after John. It won’t be long anyway until they figured it out, there was only two left and it was showing on John, he looked pale, he keeps getting headaches and the pure fear he could feel from the other is causing him to have sleepless nights. Even when John does sleep it was clear that he has nightmares.

 

 

They haven’t spoken about what Sherlock said the first night they moved in together, John never asked and Sherlock never explained, but even after the last case it was clear that John had fears as well as questions, even an idiot would be able to tell that. So now, sitting plucking at the strings and growling at his brother to leave, John entered in nothing but a bathrobe, towel drying his hair and giving a grunt to the two brothers before heading for a coffee. Sherlock couldn't help but feel a pull in his chest at the sight of him, hunched over, pale and almost weak. It appeared that John is feeling the worst of it all, and Sherlock couldn't help but want to know why. Why is John different from the others? How does he work? Does he have a menstruation cycle? Does he have a high white blood count? What blood group is he? Can he use normal blood? All these questions slipped by Sherlock’s mind eye at a hundred miles per hour and he had hardly noticed that his brother was still here, watching him closely before looking smug and clearing his throat.

 

“Looks to me that Doctor Watson is quite under the weather. I do hope you are taking care of him my dear brother.”

 

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother, he knew that tone. He knew that Mycroft knew, and his eyes fell over him and then to the file on the table and then back at Mycroft. He defiantly knew and he had brought something with him to help shed light upon it. It was John’s secrete file, his true file, not the fake that was set up over his birth. Sherlock’s eyes glimmered with interest and confusion but Mycroft still looked smug and leaves with a small notice to John.

 

 

“Eugh, I feel like shit. What’s the government after now?”

 

“You look it.” Sherlock just smirked and picked up the file before John could recognise it and flicked through it quickly, his eyebrows raised almost to his hair line. Everything was in there, where John was born, who knew about it and what his significances were as well as the damn prophecy that has started this all off. Sherlock sighed lightly and looked over to John who was muttering on about it being another government case and how he didn’t want to be involved with family rivalry. He saw John stop short when he looked at Sherlock and leaned forwards a little. Some colour was back in that moment but not much and Sherlock could understand that John was feeling the small vibes he somehow emits. With a small prickly sensation in the back of his mind, Sherlock felt himself hand over the file and watched as John ran through it as carefully as he dared to. It was at least a few seconds before Sherlock understood what John had just done, after all there was also some information on what a Blending can do in that file.

 

 

“John, as much as you are an enigma, I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that.” Sherlock was impressed, very impressed as he finds himself highly and mentally stable, which would in turn have high mental defences, making it hard for a Blending to interfere with his thoughts and actions, let alone planting ideas in his head. John looks up and smiles sadly while putting his file down and leaning back, he was defiantly suffering that other’s damn fear and pain.

 

“I just gave you a slight nudge, nothing too much. I can’t seem to get past and into your mind to fully plant a thought there. The only time it would work is when you sleep, but that is hardly ever so you won’t have to worry about me doing anything like blending ideas into your head or shaping dreams and such. Your mind is impressive and the barriers are nothing I’ve felt before. I did tell you that I've never really used what I can do to my knowledge because I want to be a Normal, but that doesn’t mean that I've never felt it happen once or twice. I just have some strong thoughts about something and it ends up being a thought blending into another person’s mind and I feel their mental barriers and then it all goes to shit.”

 

 

John was rambling again and Sherlock held up his hand to at least let him stop and take a breath. He didn’t actually want to hear it; he just wanted to understand John as a person, not a thing. But he also wanted to understand who and what he is. It was clear in the file that it is difficult to put his blood group on paper as his own was nothing they have ever seen before, especially among other Blendings. It goes as far as to suggest that trying to give John a transfusion of a Normal’s blood could kill him which was why his parents have put it into him to give blood to the private clinic within the old Holding Hall, just in case. Sherlock sighed and moved over to sit beside John.

 

“The only reason Mycroft had this file is because he wants to be a smug arse and show that he knows. But he also wants you to know that your blood infusions are extremely safe and Mycroft has them hidden perfectly. He is, after all, one of the few Holders in London.” Sherlock gave a small wink, opened the file once more and pulled something out of it. It was about John, listing his abilities after he turned ten, which should be when they come into notice. “My father’s handwriting, and it always goes to the oldest after death and plus, I’m never a choice in this.” He patted John’s leg then moved away to grab at his violin. He needed to think before he blabbered on some more himself, he turned his back on John and played, ignoring his friends stricken face. He lost himself in the music and didn’t even realise that John went to change and went for ‘some air’ a few moments ago. His thoughts were being sorted in that special place for John, his John and the only time he drew himself back to the land of the living was when a building down the road exploded with an almighty loud bang, smashing the windows of 221B and sending Sherlock and his violin to the floor.

 

\---  
John had been feeling like shit all day, he hadn’t slept at all through the night and he was feeling someone else’s fear. It was so paramount now that it was just the two of them left and it made John hate his mark and what he was all the more. No matter what Sherlock said or showed him or explained, his life was cursed and he couldn't go on like this. Yes he had healed people on battle fields, Hell, even London was a battle field and he was Sherlock’s healer now so yes, that part of the prophecy fits. Also he had that fucking curse of a bastard mark on his fucking arse which had everyone wanting him. He has never been ill, he was now thirty and so won’t age for years but that was not an issue. With Sherlock’s demanding and dangerous job, it wouldn’t be long until he was back in the ground. Well, he hoped that he wouldn’t go first or after Sherlock but that they would go down together. But that was not the focus of this walk, no, it was the fact that the prophecy said that he held secretes of a dying race, he would be the last and create a new thing and he would die to live again. That was just a crock of shit! Well, to John anyway. He hated being what he was and he even has to be extra careful now because everything was coming at him in waves and he was becoming more sensitive. Especially since it was his thirtieth birthday and he didn’t actually expect anything, but he didn’t expect to feel like shit either.

 

 

Suddenly, the pain of fear overwhelmed him, his vision blurred and he almost blacked out. He couldn’t see and he could barely stand straight. Pain rushed through his aching body, someone in his mind eye was begging for help, begging someone not to, and then there was a lot of pain. Nothing but blinding white hot pain that brings John to his knees, but by some miracle he had managed to end up walking down an ally way so no one can see him and they are all probably too distracted by a loud noise that pulses through the street. It was with this noise that the pain stopped and there was nothing. There was no pain, there was no fear and there was no one. John was on his knees gasping for breath and terribly shaken while people scream around him out in the streets and sirens start to blur in the distance. John knows what had happened, the final Blending had perished and leaving John alone, on his fucking birthday and overcoming the worst pain he had ever felt since being shot. He stood on shaky legs and made his way out onto the street where he could see the smoke, just coming over from around the corner, a little too close to home and he was off, running as fast as he could. He had to get to Sherlock, he just had to.


	8. The Aftermath

After the ringing in his ears had died down and the initial surprise had subsided, Sherlock pulled himself up and dusted himself down. He took a quick sweep of the devastation around him, dust filling the floor, glass scattered around his feet and the screams and sirens that echoed from outside. He blocked the noises out and scanned himself internally as well as externally. Just a few cuts, nothing too serious and his body was still trembling from the shock it had gone into from the blast. He was fine, well; he was actually a bit livid as his eyes rested against his violin. It was scratched now, along the immaculate varnished wood, the bow had snapped when he landed upon it. At least the strings were still intact and he could return it to its full varnished glory later. He made his way to the window, looking out onto the street, people have gathered already, assessing the damage of a building across the road and down a little to the left. The whole street must have felt the impact of the blast and all Sherlock can think right now is just how thankful he is that Mrs Hudson was away for the week visiting her sister. He wasn’t sure how she would take the state of the flat as well as the shock of the blast; she wasn’t as young as she used to be.

 

Sherlock had drifted away from the window and went to take his seat as paramedics and the fire service came to check on him, he brushed them off with a scowl and let them get on with boarding up the windows, they were just leaving when John ran up the stairs, as white as the sheets on his bed and breathing heavily. He must have ran back from where he managed to get to, the fear still shorn bright in his eyes as well as a hint of pain. Sherlock had waited until the men had finished before he addressed John, who was now nursing a cup of tea in his shaking hands, Sherlock’s own rested untouched on the dusty table beside him.

 

“What happened John? Did you feel anything?” Sherlock wasn’t used to being worried or even concerned but he was now. John looked like himself when he returned, not as ill as he was this morning. It was clear to anyone who would have the time and effort to notice, John felt someone die, he was the last Blending left that much is clear. Which also shows just which one he is and all Sherlock can manage is how fascinating he would be to science. He filed that thought into the deepest corners of his mind palace; it was in fact, a bit not good.

 

“I’m all that’s left now. The other had died in the blast. I felt it Sherlock, the fear, the yelling and begging and then nothing. Whatever happened, he was scared. I didn’t even get to know them all, I just brushed them all away, thinking that I didn’t need them, didn’t want them I don’t want to be what I am, all I want is to be a Normal and this fucking cursed mark is controlling my entire life. What is going on Sherlock!? Why now? Why us!?”

 

 _Us? Of course_. _He meant his race_. Sherlock was certain of that and as John waffled on and on about his curse as he saw it Sherlock plucked at his violin strings just as the door went again. John was instantly quiet and looked to the door, his posture stiffened and he shifted into solder mode. It would only mean for one thing; Mycroft.

 

On cue, the older Holmes entered the flat with that ugly umbrella and an air of importance; the smug git! Sherlock scowled as Mycroft nodded to John and took his seat opposite Sherlock and placed that damned umbrella against the chair. Sherlock had watched his every move with resentment in his eyes and a frown on his face, just as John watched in some form of awe and eagerness. It was like John was ready to put himself between the two if the situation called for it. No doubt he could feel the resentment building in the air around the two brothers; he would no doubt jump in to avoid the two killing each other.

 

“What do you want Mycroft? As you can see I am perfectly fine, as is John, and no I will not take on a case for you. I am busy.” Sherlock’s voice chipped against Mycroft’s armour with no effect what so ever. It was the least he was expected and Sherlock’s frown deepened to another scowl. It was a pain that he couldn’t get much of a rise out of the man; it would have made his day if he could. Sherlock also knew that Mycroft was, in fact, worried for him but he would never let it show, just as Sherlock would never let his fear show either. John groaned in the background and out of Sherlock’s eye he noticed him slip back slightly.

 

“Can you two hide your feelings a bit better, this is a headache. All those conflicting emotions and resentment for one another; it is enough to make an empath lose control.” John sounded faint and both Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him with blank expressions and yet, their worry was evaporating off them and into the air. John groaned again and got up, extracting himself from the emotions he could feel and Sherlock turned to Mycroft, about to speak before the older Holmes held up a hand.

 

“John is different from the rest Sherlock; he can feel the atmosphere around us Normals. He has refused who he is for too long and everything is rushing out at him before he has learnt how to control it and as you may well have guessed, there is no one left but him. But, enough of that for now, the case I have brought you is of the upmost importance. Missile plans have gone missing and the protector as it where has been found dead. The memory stick is still missing but has not yet left the country. I am a busy man Sherlock; I need you to get them back. And do not stick to your obnoxious story of being busy, you have nothing on. If you do this for me, my dear brother, I may just get you out of Christmas dinner back at the family home.”

 

 

Sherlock frowned again; it seemed to be a permanent facial expression around his older brother. All he could do was huff and nod but never said a word; he would be delighted if he didn’t have to succumb to the tedious Christmas dinner and the pathetic excuse for a family gathering. He put his violin down as gently as he could and leaned forward to take the file from Mycroft and flicked through it. He was about to speak when the door went again and Lestrade barged in. Sherlock sighed loudly and threw the file against the table, this was getting tedious. He looked up and was about to make some form of comment when he took in the DI’s appearance and expression, he was too easy to read. His eyes had fixed on the older Holmes, who had stood to introduce himself. They shook hands and held eye contact for longer than was necessary. Sherlock never understood the fascination of first sight attraction but he knew it when he saw it. The same thing flicked through both sets of eyes at the same time and of course Mycroft managed to compose himself quicker than the average, boring human and he was gone, leaving Lestrade with a moody Sherlock.

 

“You like the funny cases right”. Sherlock nodded and allowed the inspector to continue. “Well, that blast from across the street is said to be a gas leak, but that’s not it. Within the building, in plain sight was a very strong box, with this inside.” Lestrade had handed over a postcard; on the front was a surveillance photo of John and Sherlock together at a case, the one with the dead Blending in the suit. He turned it over and on the back was neat writing, obviously male and someone had taken care in writing this. They had ensured that it was neat and carefully aligned, the red ink sticking to the white paper like dry blood. It was interesting and fascinating all at the same time. It was always a wonder to Sherlock how the writing of one person can give away a lot about the person’s state of mind as well as their personality. Although it was never better than seeing the other face to face in which concrete and valuable data could be observed.

 

“The writer is male; you can tell by the way the scroll of the pen is straight; not tilted. An old fashioned feather pen, dipped in red ink and it was written with delicacy and care, like one would write to a lover.” Sherlock frowned over the words, his face only coming off the paper when he heard John enter the room. They shared a knowing look and Sherlock rambled on once more, the detective just standing there, stone faced and arms crossed against his chest. “The sender obviously wants my attention, wants to play a game. One could go as far to say that he is a fan, possibly ‘the’ fan and the reason why the street is blocked off. This is from our bomber and his intention is not quite clear but he has my attention.”

 

Sherlock pocketed the postcard, not really wanted John to see the writing and picked up the file his brother left. He waved of Lestrade but he wouldn’t budge and he sighed and looked up, raising that questionable eyebrow.

 

“The message Sherlock, it read; ‘The pet would go well with my collection, shall we dance?’ what the hell does that mean?” Lestrade was annoyed and Sherlock just shrugged.

 

“Don’t you have some clean-up to do Inspector?” With that, Lestrade stormed off, but John was not as easy to dismiss, after all he could probably feel everything Sherlock was trying to keep locked away. He sighed once more and put the file down before striding over to John and taking his shoulders.

 

“The explosive Moriarty may know about what you are. But don’t worry, he won’t get anywhere near you.” There was no point in softening anything; John was likely to feel if it was a lie or not anyway so Sherlock went for the truth, showing John that he was in no danger but the one thing he couldn’t hide, the one thing that was making John frown a lot more was the excitement running through his veins. Sherlock moved back and grinned;

 

 

“The game John, is on,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting there, slowly but we are getting there :)
> 
> thank you for kudos and reading and staying with me this far.. I hope to add some more soon


	9. The Taking Of John Watson - The Game Begins

The file that Mycroft had left behind was discarded and forgotten, John was pacing the room, running his hands roughly through his blond hair. It had been one week since Sherlock had received the note, one week of Sherlock’s huffing and puffing that they have had no more contact and one week of bloody Mycroft texting about that damn file. John was at the end of his tether and he couldn't stand it any longer. Sherlock was scrolling through his phone, his sight and sighing dramatically and the boredom and anticipation coming off him is intolerable.

 

John has learned how to at least control himself somewhat; he knew what he could do and had opened himself up to what he was and begun to understand what he was. This acceptance had made everything that bit easier on him and it all came as natural to him as breathing, even the dreams had settled and he had been dreaming of his ancestors. Most mornings he forgets after a while and so he had reduced himself to writing them down in a journal and going over them, it seemed like he was being taught lessons in who he was and where he comes from. He huffs himself, knowing that he was the only one alive now and he was the only one with the secretes; **_stupid prophecy_**! He had even gone as far to think that he had died more than once already; when his family was taken away from him a part of him died, when he was invalided home a part of him died and even more of him had died with each and every Blending that had been murdered in his name. Because that was what had happened, they were looking for the one to drain, he knew that now and his life was on the line, especially if this Moriarty was defiantly the one who had been giving out the Blendings’ information to that dam cabby.

 

 

Thinking about things too much gave John a headache, and Sherlock had gone through so many emotions and was now blabbering on about how long he had waited to get the game started and dance along with this Moriarty. John stopped pacing and glared up at Sherlock, feeling his excitement and anticipation crush him with sickness.

  
“This madman wants to taunt you! He wants to hurt you so many times over! He wants to make you ‘dance’ Sherlock! And all you can be is excited! Anticipated! And yet bored because he hasn’t made a move yet! Has it ever occurred to you that this thing could actually kill you in the end! He’s a bloody Collector for Christ’s sake! Have you forgotten what they actually collect? Not only is he going to fucking mess with your head, he is going to fucking come at me and all you can do is be _excited?_ Well, thanks for that!!”

  
John didn't wait for an answer, he was positivly fuming. All the emotions was getting to him and it was annoying him. He gave one final glare to Sherlock’s still form, blank face and yet shocked feelings and storms off. He was too mad and he was too full of Sherlock's sickening excitement that all logic of leaving alone went out the door with him. Yes he knew what Moriarty was truly after and he also knew that because Moriarty had an understanding of how close he had gotten to Sherlock that all this was a ruse to taunt him and to break the consultant completely. It was not news that he and Sherlock are closer than the normal best mates, it was clear that they had something that went a little deeper than normal friendship, and John could just tell that Moriarty planned to use that fact against Sherlock. After all, this was about Sherlock and the mad man, not about John, not about what he was, although it did come into play a bit.

 

As John stormed off down the street he saw the CCTV following his every move, he saw a few not-so-hidden agents following him at a distance and he couldn't stop himself; he gave the CCTV the finger and stormed off once more. He couldn't be doing with Mycroft’s over the top security, he couldn't be doing with the drama of everything and he couldn't be arsed to get into that black car and act like he was ok with everything!

 

As soon as someone stepped out from the back, John’s posture suddenly changed. He could feel it in the air, everything screamed danger at him, the way the man stared, the way he smirked and the way he stepped closer; John just wanted to run away. His adrenaline made his heart pump faster, he could feel Mycroft’s men getting closer and techy, he could feel how much this man in front of him loved the fact that he was so close to being caught but somehow he knew they wouldn't catch him. That made everything that little bit more dangerous and by **GOD** John felt alive once more. He reached around for his gun only to hear a shot from afar and felt the slight sting of a dart into his neck.

 

 

The last thing he saw before everything went black was the man that emitted danger stepping closer to him with quick and practiced movements, he saw those arms lift him and bundle him into the boot of a car, he heared the tires screech as the car pulled away quickly and all he could think of before he was blessedly taken into the pitch blackness; was how pissed off Sherlock was going to be at the fact that John was taken from right underneath Mycroft’s fat, podgy nose.

 

\--

Sherlock began pacing again when the text went through from his arrogant brother. Sherlock hadn't stopped for half an hour; half an hour since John was taken and right from the grips of Mycroft’s own men. _Incompetent fools the lot of them!_ Sherlock had told Mycroft that he needed to either fire each and everyone of his so call security minions or he needed to teach them how to shoot a fucking gun! No trace had been spotted of the car, the tracker on John’s phone had been disabled, it was almost like they have vanished from the face of the Earth. Sherlock obviously knew who was responsible and he knew that he would have a chance to get John back but he didn't know what he would have to do to get John back unharmed. There was only one thing that goes around his mind;

  

 ** _“John was gone!!”_** And all he could was pace and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's another short one, but now we are getting to the heart of things ;)


	10. Reaching Out Into The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's emotionally strained and John's in a great deal of pain.

**_You’re distracted dear brother._ **   
**_Take the case, my people are_ **   
**_on the search. – MH_ **

 

The text had came just after Sherlock had stopped the pacingl which was around an hour after John’s abduction and since then all Sherlock had done was demand the CCTV footage of John, he demanded the transcripts from the idiots that were supposed to tail him and he had gone to the scene of the crime countless times and found nothing. He tried not to focus on what John might be going through right this very second. He tried not to thihk about John being drained, gagged and hurt, but no matter how hard he tried, those images always went through his mind at some point.

 

There was no way he could find John, not unless Moriarty wanted him to and he was going out of his mind with it. This was the first time he had ever felt for another person and this attack of emotions was making Sherlock become irrational. He was not used to being like this and he was scared. He would never have admitted to that, but he knew he was; his palms were sweating, there was sweat against his brow, the vivid images of torture were back and ran through his head and he was snapping at anyone who even dared to breathe too loudly.

 

 

Staring at the text from his interfering brother, Sherlock was overwhelmed by the urge to crush his phone against his palm, even by the grip he was so very close to do so but a small rational part of his mind stopped him. He knew the case would calm him, if only a little, it would distract him enough to allow his subconscious to run over the very little data he already had gathered and it would allow him to force his emotions beneath the surface and be more like himself. It was what would be better for John after all, and he hateed it when Mycroft was right. That in itself made him more determined to focus on John than on any other case. John was paramount but Sherlock was no good to him in the state of emotional distress. With a huff and a growl he picked up the forgotten file and skimmed through it at least five times before the information slipped into his mind and he allowed it to take up most of his thoughts, instantly calming himself an he began to drown himself into a new case; which in actual fact, may just be linked in with John’s abduction.

 

 

The case was about a missing memory stick, where a file of the Prophecy had been stored. It was actually a fucking stupid place to keep something safe but of course it was not the only one and it may not even be the right one but it had been stolen none-the-less. The Protector or Carrier of the device had been found on the train tracks with his head bashed in and the photo that was supplied solved the case itself. All that was left  was to find the killer and again that would be easy after he viewed the transcriptions of the interviews. It was too easy and Sherlock just smirked; the case solved itself, the murder and who stole the device, but still, the device could not be found by Mycroft’s pathetic minions. Sherlock knew that Mycroft would be able to find it in a little under an hour if he could be bothered to do the leg work. But no, that was what Sherlock was far. He put the file down on the table and picked up his phone again.

 

_**Tedious. Boring. Solved.** _   
_**Finding John. – SH** _

 

Sherlock hated texting his brother and he ignored his phone as it buzzed continuously, first with a call and then with texts, one after the other. Sherlock was not interested and he left the flat with a new purpose; to find the memory stick and then to get John back. This was all about Sherlock and Moriarty, and John had been dragged in the middle of this because of what he was. Sherlock was adamant that it was because of John’s mark and this would have happened whether he met Sherlock or not; but little did he know that he was far beyond the point of this dance,  and Sherlock was playing by the misguided sense of the rules.

 

\- - -

 

John woke with a groan; his body felt like it had been through ten rounds with Mike Tyson and suffered badly. Everything ached, his head, his arms; everything. He tried to calm his breathing and focus but his mind was groggy and he felt like he was getting mixed feelings and nothing even seemed right anymore. It was clear to him that he was still overcoming a drug that was made to throw of his Blending side of himself. He can’t hide into the background, blend into the walls or floor, there would be no chance of implanted the doubt into his abductor’s mind and let him go. He could feel that if he tried, it would turn against him tenfold. All his life he wanted to be a Normal, and now that he was, he wanted nothing more than to just be able to be himself. He never realised how much he had taken his status for granted until now, but he didn’t have time to focus on that. He had to figure out where he was and how badly his situation is. He started with his sight and the feel of things around him, keeping his body movements as hidden as he possibly can.

  
As he went through the motions, he noticed four things; he still couldn't see even with his eyes open, there was a heavy weight by his ankle, he could move his mouth and finally; his wrists where behind his back, refusing to move. He concluded that he was blindfolded, his feet and wrists where bound but he could speak, which told him he could not escape but would more than likely be made to talk without identifying his abductors. Sherlock’s _“obviously”_ vibrated through his mind at that and he couldn’t help but smirk lightly himself. He wasn’t finished and he pushed Sherlock back a bit further. He listened to the sounds around him, the echo of the chain when he moved his ankle; he shifted and noticed that he was on his side and very cold. He felt exposed and a shock ran through his veins, giving him another shiver. He was stripped bare and everything was on show, the place was cold and the echoes bounced around the walls so he concluded that he was in another deserted warehouse and his stupid, inflamed mark was on display for all to see.

 

 

It still didn’t make sense, if this was all to grab Sherlock’s attention and use John as bait, then why would they hold him such a place. The postcard was enough to make this about that explosive Moriarty (whoever/whatever it was) and Sherlock. He had obviously grabbed the attention of some sick and twisted collector and not only would John be a rarity in his collection, but Sherlock was the prize. It was obvious even to John, but why such a display? Was this to throw Sherlock off the scent, leading him into unfamiliar territory with a different and wrong strategy? That would make sense, but it didn’t sound like Moriarty’s style. Moriarty was one for pulling out all the stops to grab Sherlock’s attention, he was one for making discrete and exciting puzzles for Sherlock to explore. This sounded more like a battle field and a power play against Sherlock than just the idea of giving Sherlock a false sense of security.

 

 

John’s body stilled and went rigid. **_A power play!_**

He had seen them in his Army days. This is about showing Sherlock who is in charge and how much that person can influence Sherlock and make him dance. He was using John as a point, he can have whatever he wanted and no one, not even a brilliant mind, could stand in his way. John’s thoughts were thrown off track when he heard a door open further along the way; ' _defiantly a warehouse then'_. As he heard a slight ‘click’ against the floor, he knew that the one walking towards him was some posh git in expensive shoes as well as someone who would be smug about his prisoner. It made John want to blend in with his surroundings, wanting to get away as far as he can but even thinking about it made pain surge through his head causing him to groan and curl up tightly. He felt sick and dizzy and waited for it to pass. When it did he had noticed the sound of expensive shoes had stopped and he could hear calm breathing, someone who feels in control.

 

 

“Jim Moriarty. Hiii!” An Irish tilt and a sing-song voice drifted its way into John’s ears. It was enough to make him shiver and curl away. He didn’t want to reply, he didn’t have any words. Just the tone of voice was enough to tell a person that this man would be crazy enough to either kiss you or snap your neck.

“I have such things planned for us my dear.” The man purred, too close for John’s liking. The breath was resting against his ear, lips brushing gently against the skin; it was almost like a lover’s touch. It made John sick and his body tensed, especially when he felt a cold hand rest against his tense stomach.

“I know what you are and you are a catch. I wonder how long it would take for your handler to come and claim you. Would he be willing to exchange places with his Blending or die trying to save him?”

 

 

The pressure was gone and the footsteps drifted away again, leaving John shivering and tense. He wasn’t scared for himself; he didn’t actually care what happened to him. But he had just found life again, a life full of danger, a life with Sherlock by his side and he had no idea how he would cope if he was taken away. He needed Sherlock, and hearing that Irish tilt talk to him so smoothly, almost lovingly made him want to vomit. He needed to get some thought to Sherlock, needed to warn him and the harder he tried the worse he felt. He wouldn’t stop though, he will warn Sherlock even if it killed him. After one minuet of trying, the sickness gave way to a migraine, which gave way to impossible pain, nothing like he had ever felt before. The drug was still in his system, blocking everything his Blending part can do but he kept trying. The last thing he remembered was the pain giving way to darkness, the final thought on his lips, his body spent and tired from the pain that racked his nerves. There was nothing John could do but slip towards the darkness and let it envelope him. He had tried and he had failed, whispering a soft _sorry_ before his whole body went limp.


	11. Waking Up In Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well ... Things just go from bad to worse for poor Watson.

The man with the sharp suit sat on his blood red leather chair, sitting in front of the observation desk with his best man to his right. The monitors that were up showed various different images; inside 221B Baker Street where the consultant was going half mad (if he wasn’t already), a few screens covered the blocks around Baker Street where they watched the government official become as confused as his younger brother, and a few images of the basement in which their prize was held. Now he was being boring, not moving, no struggling; nothing. Moriarty found this quite displeasing and would have ordered his death instantly if he didn’t see the small twitch the body gave just then. His face cracked into a smirk and he turned to face his best man, a glint of glee in his eyes.

 

“The old Captain is in pain Sebby,” his Irish tilt bounced around the room with a soft glazing. He sounded like such a young child at Christmas. It was crazy but sexy at the very same time and Sebby couldn’t help but grin back, catching his twinkling gaze. “He is trying to reach out. He is everything the idiots predicted but so much more.” Everyone had heard some form of the Prophecy of the final Blending at some point in their lives, but no-one more that Moriarty himself. His family were the former founders of the Collectors, hoping to find the one true pure one in order for a full and long lasting life in the name of their blood. Moriarty is smart enough to know they were all idiots. It was not about draining them, but breeding them and Sebby  understands all of this and he didn’t mind it one way or another. A Moriarty gremlin running around with super-human abilities would be perfect for their business, and showing certain people that he always got what he wanted was a fun way to go about it.

 

With that he stood, instantly straightening his posture and moved to stand flush against Sebastian (Or Sebby, depending on the man’s insane mood), and they both could feel the excitement that began to strain in their trousers. They both get off on things like this. The game. The chase. The fact that no one would ever find them. Sebby leaned forward and crushed their lips together in a quick and unforgiving connection, no touching, just a collision of lips and tongue. Sebby pulled back and glanced at Watson’s screen with an evil smirk and a glint in his eye.

 

“He’s out for the count now Sir. I’m sure Professor Stapleton is just begging for a prod and poke.” He said it with such a soft underlining in his tone, like butter wouldn’t melt. He was obviously not meeting Moriarty’s gaze but he could tell that it would twinkle and dance before his own eyes. Sebby was quite a find, a nice living pet of his own and someone to worship his body as well as his money. Even criminals can have an illusion of happiness, as long as it didn’t affect the work.

 

He leaned around Sebby purposely, pushing against him as he pressed an intercom button, letting the lab know that their specimen was on the way. Yes this was a power play between him and Sherlock, showing Sherlock that no matter what, Moriarty always got what he wanted. Eventually, the world will crumble and dance for one James Moriarty AND CO.

 

******

 

Sherlock had been running a mock of his flat for two hours now, and still refused to accept contact from anyone. But eventually, all of this was driving him insane and he went out to find that stolen memory stick. As soon as the air hit him he had a surge of feelings, something that he refused to see at the start; this was something to do with a power play, and also something to do with the prophecy. But what he still didn't understand why Moriarty was looking for that one in particular. Well if he needed to trade for John then he will. He wants his best friend back and he will do anything to get that.

 

Using his phone he left a message on his website, making sure to keep it private from all viewers but one. It was a simple message; ' _A meeting, tonight,_ _at the pool where this all started, I'll have what you want in five hours.'_ He would have had the memory stick by midnight that night, he was positive and he just hoped that the little niggling feeling in the back of his head would dissipate soon. It was too distracting.

 

*****

It was seven o’clock in the evening when Moriarty had received the summons, and he couldn’t help but grin. Everything was going smoothly and better that he had anticipated; now he had five hours with John. Five hours to play. Oh, this was so perfect he had to kiss Sebby in front of a few of his workers. To say Sebby was shocked was an understatement but that was the best thing about it. It was heated, it was rough and it was so unexpected that the slight girlish yelp from Sebby went straight to Moriarty’s crotch. Oh, these five hours are going to be heaven for him, he will make sure Watson is wrapped up perfectly and ready for his previous master. But the end result will be different; the duo won’t know what would hit them. He was so excited that he didn’t want to break away from Sebby, even when a cough had told him that their specimen was in place and waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes a short chapter but the next ones should be in detail. One chapter for each hour John is in captivity ;)


	12. Hour One - The Assessment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so many things to do in one hour. So many things to do in fivers hours. Oh how Moriarty is excited. 
> 
> The first hour is always the easiest

John woke up feeling incredibly queasy, his head was throbbing and he could hear his heart beat in his ears. He felt weird too, he knows he couldn't do anything, use anything of brain power because that would just make his head a lot worse, but he can feel the edge wearing off a bit. Which was in fact a relief, he predicts to himself that in a few hours he would be able to use his new found powers against the people who insist of having him in such a peculiar fashion.

 

With that thought he groans and tries not to move, this is going to be extremely awkward. He was flat on his back against a metal table, his legs where spread with his knees bent into his chest, fastened in place tightly. He wouldn’t be able to move even if he tried. His arms where strapped at either side of his head, flat and straight as is his body, but wrists tied together. In this position his body is stretched to its full capacity and maybe so much more. With his knees bent and legs apart, his entrance to his arse is on perfect display and he is sure he can feel that it has been stretched in place. It feels that his hole is ten inches in diameter and something cold and probably metal is keeping it that way. If he voiced his guess out loud, and Sherlock was here, he would probably be astounded by his deduction. He was actually spot on.

 

-

 

A circular disk had been inserted into John, to force his walls open so that it would be easier to see what his insides looked like. Moriarty did actually have fivers to have fun; he could take his sweet little time with this. First he was going to give John his first assessment and then Sebby can have a bit of fun in an hours’ time. He entered the room and gasped at the beautiful sight in front of him. Oh he just can’t wait for the finale and claiming John as HIS. He left out a soft wolf-whistle then laughed as he watched john tense and shiver.

 

“Not so much a Captain now are you pet?” Moriarty teased. John may be putting on a front but no one knows what is going through his mind right now. Honestly, people can be so stupid. “It’s not like I can get stimulated by a ten inch hole. It wouldn’t touch the sides dear.” His voice sounded so soft and it vibrated some evil calm around the room. This said room was small, cold and held what it needed to. John was shivering with the cold then, goose bumps covering his sleek golden tan and Moriarty cannot stop himself from tracing his fingers along the skin.

 

“So soft, no wonder Sherlock adores you dear. But let’s not talk about him; Professor Stapleton is just begging to have a look at you. Shall we let him in sweet cheeks?”  
Without waiting for an answer (not like John was going to give him one), a fifty-something, grey haired man came into the room. He was dressed in a lab coat, mask covering his mouth and plastic gloves hugging his frail hands. He nodded to Moriarty and stiffened slightly. He knew what his job would entail, and it paid pretty damn well, but that still didn’t mean that Moriarty didn’t give him the chills, because he did,. He gave everyone the chills.

 

“Let’s start with the mark and then the camera. And no shoving boss, this is delicate work.”

 

Moriarty rolled his eyes before shifting his gaze to the left buttock. John instantly stiffened and tried to hide it, but there was no way he could move right now. It was impossible, so instead a loud groan of impatience was uttered from his lips and Moriarty placed gentle fingers against the enflamed, pure white mark. Caressing slowly; he was completely amazed by it. Every grove was so strong and very pronounced, he could feel everything. His eyes glistened over at his prize, on hand shifted over to John’s stomach unconsciously, and again John stiffened.

 

“Piss off!” The first words uttered from the man hunched up on the metal bed. Moriarty was not shocked; instead he moved and picked up a scalpel, cutting a shallow cut into John’s leg, causing him to hiss.

 

“You will be a good little freak now darling. Or I will sow your mouth shut. Understand sweet cheeks.” His voice was so calm it might have been seen as a compliment other than a threat. Truly showing how crazy Moriarty truly is. He placed down the scalpel and nodded for the Professor to continue. Without so much as a warning, he shoved the camera into the forced ten inch hole non to carefully and looked over to the screen. He had to ignore John’s yells and cries; his hole may have been extended but the camera was big enough to course discomfort and pain. It was chosen by Moriarty after all.

 

The screen on front of them showed a normal inner male body. There was nothing different. Moriarty was getting impatient and rested his hand against the Professor’s wrist, forcing the camera in deeper, John cursing and growling and bleeding beneath them. Then it stopped. Not the cries but the camera and both males were transfixed on the screen, John muttering and heaving below them. On the screen would have been the prostrate if it was any other normal male human being. But on here was an opening (it was closed now) but it formed the shape of a female’s vagina area. Moriarty smirked and moved round to fetch a thinner instrument. Something can slide in beside the camera, using the blood as a lubrication of sorts. On the screen they saw the thinner instrument slide past the camera and stimulate the prostrate/opening. John whimpered and tried to get away but the ‘thing’ opened and let the thinner instrument past.

 

While Moriarty was busy inspecting the womb, egg sacks and the hormone gland, the Professor was making notes and sliding out the bigger camera. While his boss was busy being intrigued by the femininity of the inside of Watson, he was moving about taking hair sample, sweat samples and blood samples. He was never gentle, causing the man against the table as much discomfort as was possible. Then something happened; something that no one alive has ever witnessed. A secrete of the Blending was being told, and it was coming from John’s mouth. His body was so stiff, his eyes glassed over and both Moriarty and the Professor where stunned to a silence.

 

**_“We are one. A group of the highest power, sent back into society to evolve with one another. No one understood the science, no one cared for it and every one became so scared. The science became an outcast and forced into hiding. This is not what we wanted. This is not what was supposed to happen. We wanted piece among our races and you RUINED IT!!!”_ **

 

And he was gone. Limp and lifeless against the metal bed and they were only half an hour into the prodding and probing. Moriarty extracted the slim device without care, removed the solid ring with more force than was necessary and turned his gaze to the Professor.

 

“Tell me this session was recorded!” He practically screamed his demand and grinned as the Professor nodded dumbly. He turned and rushed out, leaving the Professor to do his job, take samples and monitor John. Brain waves, white blood cell count and to get him ready for Sebby’s fun. Right now Moriarty had a video to analyse. The first secrete to be extracted from a Blending, and it must be due to the stress of the situation. There was no doubt John would have even known he was doing it. Oh it was fucking Christmas!! From the sounds of things; the Blending’s were a scientific experiment!!


	13. Hour Two - A good Whipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurt plus Euphoria. Is this right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than promised but here now :D
> 
> WARNINGS:   
>  \- Descriptions of slight violence  
>  \- Forced drug taking

‘Holy fucking Shit!!’ 

 

Was the first thing that John thought as he came through to consciousness. He had no idea how long he was out but he fucking ached everywhere! Well, everywhere inside his fucking arse, even his bloody womb protested. God he has never hated that part of his body more that he does now! If those pricks have kick started his heat for the first time in years, he will seriously lose it! He’s never really need to take the pill; he had one heat, which is where he bled for days out of his fucking arse, and after that … Nothing. He was glad of it but now, he is stressed, he is aching and quite frankly, he is scared. Not that he would ever let on to anyone though, he just hopes Sherlock works this out quicker than normal and gets him the fuck out of here. These people are worse than the collectors! 

 

 

With a groan, John managed to open on eye and instantly wished he never. He thought his sense of direction was off, but was hoping that it was due to passing out from the pain earlier. Having things forced up your rectum fucking hurts, soldier or not! But now, now he was suspended upside down, his arms locked in place and hanging by the ankles on some sort of metal beam. He didn’t even have any swing space. This is going to be painful and he braced himself for as long as he dares, he doesn’t even know what’s going on. Which is why when the tall, dark and very muscular smoker entered the room, John stiffened initially. His eyes watching as the feet came close; at least he had room to move his head. 

 

 

“My turn for some fun, Watson.” His voice had a sick underlining pleasure in it and John can’t help but swallow hard. He turned his gaze away and closed his eyes, getting ready but faking a calm he doesn’t have. His thoughts focus on Sherlock, not reaching out to him because he can’t go through that pain again but just thinking of him. But nothing could prepare him for the shock of the ice cold water trickling of his body.   
The smoker laughed while John almost screamed in fright and shock. The water was dripping to the floor and John’s eyes were open and staring, his breath panting for control and his thoughts scattered everywhere now, he could hold them down. 

 

 

“I want you full attention Watson, My dear Moriarty wants you broken and ready for later. I have you for three hours and I am just dying to have some fun!” The man with the iced water and the cigarette hanging from his mouth laughed loudly, almost choking on it. John wished he would, he didn’t know how much longer his naked body could put up with being blasted with ice cold water every five fucking minuets.   
It was horrendous. It was the worst John has ever had to suffer and by the time half an hour had past, John’s skin tinged white, and his lips turning blue as he shook with cold, his teeth chattering. 

 

 

“I ... If … if you … Y... You … Keep th … this up … I’d b... be … die … d... sh... Shock.” John could barely hold a thought together but he did know that if his body is kept to be brutally attack by the cold, it was likely he would go into shock and possibly die. And he refused to let that happen, he didn’t want to leave Sherlock on his own. He’s too cold to even think of why he’s thinking like that but he doesn’t want to go and leave him. So he plays to what he hopes is what this man is wanting. Obviously if Moriarty once to see him again in a few hours he wouldn’t want him dead before he got there now would he. 

 

 

The man seemed to look thoughtful for a moment and put the bucket of water down. He moved to grab something from that far corner and turned it on low. It was not much but John instantly felt the warm air. This man must know not to warm him up too quickly, but then again, he wouldn’t get comfortable. 

 

 

Just as this thought crossed his mind, a searing pain was felt against his back, only just registering a slapping sound. A few seconds later, after John tried to compose himself, he heard the whistle, then the crack and felt the pain. God it FUCKING HURT!! And even though he tried, he couldn’t help but yell out loudly.

**

 

Sebastian watched as the whip caused perfect red welts against the Blending’s back. It was like creating art and he was having so much fun he would need a fuck before he started on the next lot. He cracked the bones in his neck and let the whip feel the skin, the back and the arse. He was extremely careful to make sure that the wounds never opened too deep, he gave extreme care in his angle so that the wounds would be covered by clothing. The Blending had to be perfect wrapping for the arrogant consulting detective. No marks could be showing, if they did the Seb would be in for some torture of his own, and that was something he didn’t want.

 

He stopped when a timer sounded, giving John a little break, for tow minuets while he arranged the final part of this treatment. He did love it too much, which was why they threw him out of the army and Moriarty picked him up and developed his talents. But that’s a thought for another time. This time he had to get this right or there will be hell to pay. 

 

 

He filled up a syringe with Moriarty’s concoction, something that would last at least ten minutes for John and still be highly addictive even after the first dose. He never understand the chemistry of it all but he knows that a Blending would become addicted to this a lot quicker than a Normal, something to do with enhancing their biological endorphins or something but Seb was not interested.

 

He stepped towards a shivering and cowering John, the soldier is still clear to see, even now. His back is straight, his shoulders squared and his eyes on a fixed point. Even though he is in agony, his screams where delightful, John still remained the soldier. Closing himself off from his capture and avoided looking at him at all. 

 

“Now then Johnny-Boy, this won’t hurt at all. In fact, I have it on good authority that you will love it.” Seb smirked as he walked round to the front of John, showing him the needle. He loved the way he tensed even more at the sight, his eyes wide bit still not giving into anything. Seb pressed the needle non to gently into John’s neck and pressed down the plunger. The effect was immediate. He saw John’s eyes slowly glass over and he began to giggle slowly. What came out of his mouth was nothing but slurred words, but still enough to make out, even if his jaw shivered as he spoke.

 

 

“Even as they hid and blended in amongst humanity, they became out-casted. It is your entire fault. They should have rejoiced not chased them. They do not hold any key for cures, they do not hold anything. They were a unique gift in which you destroyed and used. They were meant to breed, to blend, to help but you scared them away and they became human among you. You did not deserve the science behind it. You do not deserve the truth.”

**

 

When John felt the needle go in, he instantly relaxed; the warmth of the liquid was running through his veins slowly. Whatever it was made him feel lighter and happy. It was unnatural to be feeling like that right now, but he couldn’t help it. Whatever this man had given him, he felt better for it. He thought it must be some pain relief, something to stop him from becoming useless too soon. After all, this was a game for Sherlock. Before he knew what was happening, John felt like he was on cloud nine; he was giggling and souring in his high. He thought he heard himself speaking at some point but he didn’t care, he just wanted to enjoy what he was feeling right now before he had to face another brutal session upon his body.   
The weird, smoke smelling man was rushing away now with a hint of a skip in his step, and John just giggled. He knew what he was doing and it was amazing and quite brilliant that the others couldn’t. And that was not the feeling from whatever is now in his blood stream. And GOD it felt good!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for keeping up with me so far.  
> Hope you are enjoying it, comments and Kudos are welcomed and thankyou to all those who are staying with me and who have commented and kudos'ed.
> 
> you guys are amazingly awesome ;)


	14. Hour Three - A Stressful Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is ecstatic, Seb is horney, John is coming down from a high and where the fuck is Sherlock!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one because you guys are awesome. 
> 
> WARNINGS:   
>  \- scenes of a sexual nature  
>  \- descriptions of war  
>  \- psychological torture  
>  \- forced drug taking

Seb was running to Jim with a grin, standing near Jim as they watched the footage once more. They were both ecstatic and it was clear just how much Seb was by the tent that was building in his trousers. He enjoys inflicting pain; it arouses him and makes him want an aggressive wank if Jim denies him. Not that he does often, but at times he is normally too busy.  
“Oh, this is like music to my ears. It seems they slip out when he is stressed or euphoric. This is delightful. You have done well my pet.” Jim purred, stopping the video feed now, turning to face Seb. “You deserve some attention my sweet.” With that his hand moved quickly and grasped at Seb’s ever growing arousal, enlightening a low groan from him. 

 

He never spoke, he just grinded slowly, pressing all his weight into Jim. This is the one time he can be dominating in this fucked up relationship and he will extort it for the next ten minutes. He forces Jim back against the desk, moving to bend above him so Jim has no choice but to lift himself up and onto the desk to reach Seb’s needing lips. They crushed together in a mass of lips and tongue, groans sounding from each of them. It was quick, it was rough, it was just what them two needed right now. 

 

“Off” Seb growled against Jim’s lips, his hands indicated to his immaculate trousers, his own hands moving to get rid of his own trousers. This has to be quick, he needs this and he needs it NOW!! 

 

Jim doesn’t protest, he never protests. Instead he moves his hands from his pet’s growth and works on freeing his own. He loves it when Seb is like this, t is perfect. The idea that someone is brave enough and strong enough to course some control over him is perfect. It equals amazing sex.

 

It only took them a few seconds before they were naked from the waist down, Seb moving his hands to rest again Jim’s hips possessively. It’s a good thing that Jim has lube on hand and knows just what to do with it. He grabs it from the desk draw, opens it and slicks his own fingers with the cold, stick substance. Seb growls, knowing what Jim is about to do and his cock twitches in anticipation. He watches as Jim moves his slick fingers to his hole, spreading his legs wide enough so Seb can all but stare. He watches as two fingers instantly disappear into the entrance and he watches as they thrust and stretch his boss out, ready to take him. 

 

“Enough!” Seb growls after waiting for what he feels like is a millennia. Jim’s fingers extract themselves and Seb lines himself up. He gives no warning as he thrusts into the tightness with a grunt, Jim’s hands coming to cling onto him instantly. It burns and it is heavenly for them both. This is what they are, to rough animals, gauging at each other while the one takes him with no mercy.

 

Violent thrusts ensure that Jim moans and growls, Seb bites at the exposed skin, enough to mark and bleed, even enough to scare. This is the only time he is aloud and he is the only one who is given the silent permission to do so. T is the only inch of feeling Jim will ever show anyone. 

 

In tangled limbs and violent thrusts they both reach a climax together, each roaring the other’s name, bursting against each other and breathing heavily. They never have time to cuddle, not one of them wants that. This is about taking what they need when they need it. It is a fucked up relationship from an outsider’s eye, but to them, it is the perfect agreement.

 

**  
John feels like he has been hit by a fucking truck as he finds himself strapped to a metal chair. The pain comes to him tenfold after the painkillers or whatever it was wears off and he can feel his body begin to shake. He knows what it is and he knows he would love a taste of that euphoria once more. But the doctor in him scalds him, his mental processes work to distract his mind from his body’s pure need. How can it be possible to become needing something he has only had a taste of? Must be because he feels like shit and he would take anything to not feel the burn of the welts on his back and this chair is making him feel worse. 

 

When he finally feels a little like himself and is able to ignore his body’s trembling and betrayal to an extent, he takes a look around himself in order to see if he can suss out what is going to happen this time. But all he sees is a screen in front of him, no equipment and the screen is lit up. His arms are tied tight behind him, his ankles tied tightly to the legs of the chair. There is no way he can escape from this; whoever did this must be an expert ad must have done it when John was half out of it.

 

Instead of focusing on his surroundings, he forces his mind back over the last ten minutes. He can’t remember seeing whoever tied him, but he is sure he can remember giggling a lot and something about a kinky Sherlock. That thought shocks him extremely. Did he really think Sherlock would do this in a kink aid? Even worse, why is he thinking of Sherlock with a kink anyway? He must still be high of the pain killers, very strong and good painkillers. Something he would take again.

 

NO!! He shook himself. Whatever they are giving him could not be good for him, they just can’t be. He can feel something in his gut, well, his womb more than likely and he groans out loud. Not only is it a pain killer and addictive for him (that much he has sussed out) it seems to be bringing on another heat. He can feel himself cramping but not as badly as he did the first time. He tries to think what is happening and all he seems fixated on is that whatever they injected him with has awakened his production cycle. That can only mean one thing; Moriarty wants to breed. With him!! That thought instantly makes him gag and fight against the bonds that hold him. Fuck his body’s need for the pain killer drug enhancing shit, fuck the pain. He is not carrying a demon child!! He will not carry any child!! Sherlock is playing this all wrong!! He has to find him; fuck midnight, Sherlock has to get him now!!! 

 

At that thought the door to his left flies open and the smirking idiotic smoker returns. Moving without a sound towards the back of John and leans over the side of the chair, whispering into John’s left ear.

 

“Movie night my dear.” The tone of the raspy smoker made John stiffen. This cannot be any old movie, this is a torture hour, and they wouldn’t show him something that he was going to be bored over or even like. This is going to be Hell, but what kind of hell, John doesn’t want to know. 

 

The smoker breath moves away from him and John instantly stiffens. The so called movie hasn’t been turned on yet and Tabaco breath (suits him, John will stick to that name for him now) returns to John’s field of vision with some weird looking glasses. John tries not to but his eyes widen at what he sees, the contraption looks deathly uncomfortable and it looks like he wouldn’t be able to even blink. Shit!! That means that whatever they are going to show him, he is going to be forced to watch and that just makes him not want to watch it all the more. he struggles as Tabaco breath moves to arrange the device and the more he struggles the more it hurts and there is a real danger of John losing his sight because the thing will slip. So he has no choice but to remain still as the piece is attached. The device is tight, uncomfortable and already his eyes beg to be blinked but he honestly can’t. 

 

Tabaco breath moves out of visual sight again and the screen starts up, instantly the noise reaches him. The sounds of gun fire and exploding bombs fill the room and John instantly stiffens, trying to turn his head away but Tabaco breath is on him, keeping his head facing the screen; 

“Don’t you want to watch the beauty of it all? The devastation? You failure?” Tabaco breath whispers in his ear. John can feel his heart ripping at his chest as he sees the screen burst to life. 

On the screen is John’s platoon. He has made the rank of Captain and he is leading them through the sandy terrain of the desert. The place is quiet now, the noise has died out and everything is too quiet. John stops the platoon and signals for them to be prepared. Everyone knows that the most dangerous sound is the sound of nothing. If you’ve been in the war long enough then you’ll know the signs. 

 

In the seat, John is sweating, shaking and desperately trying to turn away. He struggles and groans, he really does not want to watch this. He knows what happens and he can’t bear to see it happen all over again. He’s panicking while on screen the plains rush over their heads. Bombs are dropped on his comrades as he yells to find cover. There are ditches but it is not enough. They are still in the open. They need the back up. Someone calls for it, but it is forever to get there. The men try their best to ward of the enemy flights and then there’s nothing. Blood mixed with sand and most of John’s men are down. He does what he can while they look out for oncoming vehicles. At last the friendly back up arrives, John and the injured get onto one transport and they fly off, the other men behind. Still John struggles in the chair. He knows that this is nowhere near the end. That was just the beginning. Tabaco breath is laughing, whispering cruel words that John cannot hear. 

 

He watches as his nightmares fill the screen in front of him, he watches as the vehicles head into what looks like an abandoned village. They move to cover; John gets out and begins his work. Healing the sick, saving lives, barking orders to others. Then they hit. Snipers in the tall buildings and the team are forced to spread out. John is busy in the cover, bandaging up his men, ordering an air lift to safety. Trying to get people out! But there’s nothing he can do. He has his fingers digging into one man as he bleeds out, the fingers putting pressure on the wound, empty promises of safety leave his mouth and John in the chair lets out a groaned noise, a shout of anguish as he watches the bullet sear through his shoulder. In through the back out through his chest. His fingers in the wound of his fallen soldier go slack and they both bleed out. The man beneath him dies in minuets, John is gasping for air, both on screen and in the chair. The screen goes blank and Tabaco breath is laughing loudly. Hes dancing around and moves to be in John’s vision.

 

“oh. You failed. You let him die! Did you find out the sniper that shot you? Did they tell you that it was friendly fire you were under? I knew I recognised the blond in your hair. That scar is a delight to see. My very own handiwork.” He danced and laughed and John went mad. He seemed like a man possessed. He was yelling, swearing and pulling at his restraints until he bled. This lasted for fifteen minutes and John didn’t look like he was tiring of it. Tabaco breath just smirked, reached for the needle and inserted it to John’s thrashing neck. It was almost instant again; john felt the rush of euphoria, his aches and pains dulling and his mind swimming. His shouting died down until he was giggling again, tears streaming down his face as the contraption was released and he blinked slowly. Whatever was in that needle it calmed him, made him feel on top of the world and he was safe. With this fluid in him he could imagine being with Sherlock, holding his hand and kissing his lips. He didn’t care what was happening to him right now, he didn’t care about his sexual identity crisis, he just loved the feeling this drug gave him. In all, it has to be the best outcome of this whole shitty charade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters to be coming soon.   
>  Sherlock's POV will return in chapter 17. Maybe 18. Not sure yet, we'll see how it goes ;)


	15. Hour Four - Preperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is being prepared and all he wants is the euphria and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill ;)
> 
> WARNING:  
> \- Scenes of violent nature and blood   
> \- Forced drug taking

John was left alone for a further fifteen minutes. It is now ten in the evening and Jim has received another message from Sherlock. The game is going perfectly. Sherlock has found all the placed clues and has no idea what is going on over on this end. It is perfect. Watching him dance and trip and fall. It is clear to see that Sherlock is nothing without his darling pet, he has no focus ground and he is slipping and forgetting the dance. It is laughable. Jim knows why he has John, and he never does something for just one reason. John has even worked it out; the look of realisation upon his face every so often is priceless. Sherlock doesn’t even know and now, Jim has a new idea in his plan. He will return the prized pet, with a gift of his own. He has worked on the biological workings of Blendings for years and he knows how to stimulate them, he knows how to prepare them for reproduction and he is using that knowledge to force John into his cycle. 

 

Sherlock can’t see that this is a power play. He is showing him he can do what he wants to who he wants. He knows more about him and he will win eventually. He will take Sherlock’s heart and burn it to ashes in front of him. He will watch as Sherlock and John drift into despair. He will take what he’s creating and kill anyone who stands in his way.  
He runs his fingers against the monitor as he watches Sherlock pace his flat, waiting for the deadly hour. Jim would never have become a father if he could have helped it. But he needs this. This is the perfect thorn in their lives and he would make sure it stung when it was removed. He would leave the wound open and deep so that they bleed out and shrivel, fall and die. It is the perfect plan and he knows it will work. John is caring and he will love whatever comes out of his disgusted arse. Sherlock cares for John, loves him deeply (even Jim can see that even if they can’t) that he would do what John wants. Moriarty’s child in there would be the perfect disease to ruin them both. And then, the icing on the cake, the child would be lost to them. Taken from them and grown to be there worst nightmare since Moriarty. Either that or the child dies. They do seem to take forever to grow up. And Seb wouldn’t care. He knows what this really is, he knows about the power play and the fall and the need to win. 

 

Jim’s thoughts are so uncontrolled but brilliant that this becomes the perfect plan. Get John pregnant then watch as they become used to the idea and then kill the fucking thing!! This in turn makes Jim laugh and text Seb to get the game started. John must be prepared for Jim. He does hate getting his hands dirty.

***

John comes to himself somewhat, falling slowly from his euphoric high. It is horrid coming down this fast, he wishes for more. if Sherlock won’t come to him then he wishes to escape to him with the use of whatever the fuck they are putting into his blood. Now he can feel the dull ache of his back, something pressing against his stomach and he feels his knees against the floor. Not only that he can feel his opening stretching to accommodate for something and it feels a little too comfortable and nice. The surge John gets causes him to groan and he tries to see what is going on down there but he can’t. He tries to feel, using his bodily and blending instincts but that just gives him a dull ache in his head. As he slowly comes down from his high (taking longer than last time, they must be upping the dose) he realises his head is bursting with the pain of trying to use his blending abilities and whatever is in his arse is vibrating slowly against his prostrate and his vaginal opening. Having a soft stimulation on both at one given time sends sparks of lust through a Blending. Anyone with background knowledge in their basic chemicals and biology would know that. All John can think now is that he is fucked. Or he’s going to be but it does take a while for the stimulation to be complete. It won’t make him aroused but it will make his reproduction organs wake slowly. It’s not painful but all John’s mind can do is scream loudly and he can’t even get his body to struggle.

 

He is laid flat on his stomach over a table, small enough so his knees are bent and resting against the floor. His legs are spread wide and John feels a stab of panic rising from his gut. He can hear someone walking about and can smell the smoke of a cigarette. He knows his torturer is in the same room and he groans. Not from what is happening in his arse but because his euphoric high is completely gone and he is full of aches and pains, his brow is coming out in a cold sweat and his body is shaking. It needs more, it wants more and John tries to scream at it to behave. To stop wanting, to stop needing and to stop bloody preparing!! 

 

At the groan, Tabaco breath is on him in seconds, putting out his cigarette against one of the whip marks and John can’t keep the yell of pain down. He doesn’t care anymore, he is just about giving up and he is almost broken. In his mind he knows that, his logic is screaming at him. Sherlock will come. Sherlock will come. But there’s a voice shouting over that. ‘Sherlock might come, but what am I going to suffer in the meantime while he is out there being a twat’.

 

“Now then Johnny-Boy, I have been told to get you prepared for my darling. But I am also aloud to have some fun while your precious arse is waking up. Do you know what I’m going to do to you hm? No? Well, let’s just say I want to know how much a Blending can bleed.”

 

That voice, it is sick and wrong and sends fear down John’s spine. He shudders and aches, he tries to ignore the feeling inside him and he tries to focus on something else as he comes down from his high. But the truth of the matter is that he feels like shit and he will take anything he can get right now. He needs a distraction from the want of that euphoria, he needs a distraction from the pulsing pleasure in his arse and he needs distraction form the voices arguing about Sherlock. 

 

He gets it, in the aid of the sharp blade cutting into his back. John hisses and bites down on his bottom lip drawing blood. He can feel the knife carve into his skin, sometimes it goes deep, and sometimes it scratches the surface. Once, when the knife got to the shoulder blades, it got so deep it scratch at the bone. With this John yelled out and tried to struggle away from the blade but no use. He can feel the blood seeping against his back, even when Tabaco breath wiped it away with a cloth. It was almost like he is doing a tattoo. Maybe he was, in blood. John became distant, trying to focus on anything but the blood, the shaking and the vibrating. It was useless. He was beginning to feel woozy from the loss of it all and his breath was coming in short hitches. 

 

The knife had stopped and the man behind him moved to face John, smirking but saying nothing. No one said anything and the silence was uncomfortable. John turned his gaze away and let his tears fall. He began thinking over what had been done to him and he wondered if he would die here and be given to Sherlock. Maybe getting pregnant wasn’t the whole idea anymore. Maybe Moriarty was bored and is going to rip him apart and dump him on Sherlock and just watch as Sherlock became alone once more. Maybe that is the whole plan and having John think about being pregnant was just some ruse to deny the truth. 

 

He suddenly let out a yell of pain when the blade dug into the flesh on his shoulder. He breathed loudly and in short breaths as it was removed and plunged back in again. It felt like he was actually going to die here. 

 

“SEBASTIAN!!” The yell was loud enough to make John jump, the pain etched on his face as he heard Tabaco breath (Sebastian) step back. “We had a perfect plan! You are going to have him bleed to death!” the voice came out as an Irish hiss and John’s body began shivering once more. “Jealousy does not suit you. Now administer the drug, patch him up and see me in my office!” With that Jim was gone, John heard Seb curse and throw down the knife. John’s ragged breathing got louder, more panicked and more desperate. He resorted to begging. 

 

“No more. No drugs. Can’t. Please.” 

It was pathetic of him he knew, but he is already hooked on it and he doesn’t want to be made worse if Sherlock does get to him on time before he is killed. Sebastian only just growled and injected him anyway before moving to patch up his back. Again, euphoria descended on John, bringing him into the world of Sherlock and him, hand in hand, lips on lips and not a care in the world. He didn’t even feel anything with stitches and such; he just mumbled sweet nothings to Sherlock. Whether it was aloud or not he didn’t care, this was the only way he could relax in this nightmare and it was perfect. Maybe he will try and get Sherlock to do the formula for this stuff. John is positively hooked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that I must admit that this leads to Johnlock ... eventually. I promise.


	16. The Final Hour - Welcome To Hell Johnny-Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just one hour and then Sherlock can come and fetch him. He has given up thinking he would return earlier, Jim is too clever for that. But what John realises now is that JIm actually has a soft spot...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
>  \- Descriptions of rape  
>  \- Forced (non fatal) Overdose

Sebastian went to see Jim in his office at a quarter to eleven that evening. They had just over an hour before wrapping John up and showing him off and Jim still has to tie the bow around him. That is the only reason he lost control in there. John would be able to carry his lover’s child, even if he did agree to it; it still upsets him to an extent that makes him angry. He’s a dangerous man when angry, he could bring an army to their knees, he could spread blood into the seas and he would not look back and regret. Even opening friendly fire on that platoon was fun and he knew where he should be. He knew he was discharged with no honour because of that, and Jim found him and made his betrayal to the crown slip away and disappear. For that, Seb owed him his debt and skills. He was a damn good marks man and he was a perfect man to inflict torture, even if he does get carried away at some point, but he doesn’t care. This is not the time to think over his own life, it’s not as if Jim would end it as quickly as he would if he was someone else in his empire.

 

He walked up to Jim’s desk and stood shoulders squared, back straight and arms held by his side. A soldier standing to attention for his superior and waiting a bloody good whipping but all he was met with was that damn smirk. The one that could make blood run to ice in the veins and send shivers down the Devil’s spine. But to Seb, all it did was send his warm blood straight to his groin. He loved that smirk and Jim knows it. It seemed like hours before Jim spoke up but it was merely seconds, Seb was beginning to think with his pants and was getting distracted.

 

“There’s a change of plan my dear,” Jim began, his voice soft, gentle and his eyes glistening with the madness that lies beneath. “The main point is to show Sherlock that we can get everything and anything we want and not even big brother can stop us. The power play has turned into something else now. As you know Sherlock is a thorn in our sides and he is getting in my way. We hand him back John and watch his heart crumble at the state he is left in. he may have fixed him once, but after tonight, Johnny-Boy will be broken beyond repair. If he gets to carry a little brat through my help then that is the icing on the cake. John will have no choice but to care and cherish what would be growing inside him, and he would change Sherlock into a caring snivelling slob and too boring for my attention. And if I get too bored I could always force them to lose the child and watch them bleed.” His eyes began to twinkle even more, just showing Seb that this is the plan. The overall plan and nothing can make him change his mind. He is going to make a mess of the two fucking idiots and by GOD!! Seb loved that idea, but it still made him envious beyond words. 

 

When Seb just nodded and kept eye contact (he was not going to back down, he would never back down when meeting the devil) Jim frowned deeply and moved to stand. He walked – no stalked – towards Seb, leaning in front of him and looking up to keep their gaze locked. His hand moved out and possessively grasped at Seb’s right buttock and squeezed, causing him to groan loudly. 

 

“I am yours and you are mine! NEVER!! Forget that dear!!” With that Jim left Seb standing there, breathing heavily and getting close to achingly hard. He was there till the clock chimed eleven and he knew he had to do his part while Jim was wrapping up John, putting the final pieces together and breaking the bastard completely. It caused Seb to shiver as he began sending out the orders, not leaving anything out and he moved to redress and get himself ready. He would be needed at the pool, and he couldn’t watch the monitors for fear of smashing them and rushing to beat John to a bloody pulp. Jealousy is a frightful thing when based within a man of a traitorous temper. 

 

**

John instantly groaned when he heard the door open. Everything was louder than it should be, he was covered in a cold sweat, his body was shuddering violently and he felt so weak. Voices sounded too far away but too loud and he couldn’t help but cry out in fear and pain. The drug that was leaving his system was causing him to feel the aggravation of the cuts to his back, his head pounding as he was begging to connect to Sherlock once more, begging him to find him sooner, to get to him now!! But he knew Jim was smart, he knew he didn’t want John found now. When Jim was ready he would let Sherlock find John. Whether he was dead or alive, John didn’t really know anymore. He had lost all thought about this plan and power play, he could not understand what the fuck is going on, but by god he needs that euphoria drug back, anything to escape the Hell that he is sure to face. 

 

When he looked up, his breath ragged and quick, he saw Moriarty smirking at him. He instantly looked away and closed his eyes, he knew what he was here for and he didn’t want to look that man in his eyes. He wanted to force his body to relax but it repelled and stiffened, the vibrating thing in his arse was clenched in his muscles. He didn’t want anything in there and his body was actually agreeing with the fear and not betraying him anymore. He had already spilled his seed once when he actually thought it was Sherlock behind him, teasing him and milking him. It was embarrassing now he thought about it. Sherlock doesn’t do things like this, Sherlock is married to his work, he would never take John like that. 

 

The moment that he felt the vibrations stop and the thing forcibly removed, John yelled out again and tried to move away, his muscles tensed but still open. He was in the position that Tabaco breath had left him, his knees ached, his stomach was craping and his shoulder burned. Then he felt it. The hands at his hips, perfect nails digging in deep to the skin, he didn’t even realise Jim was naked. Maybe he was when he entered the room, he didn’t know, he was lost in his withdrawal as well as instant fear. Now that fear was building and John couldn’t breathe! He didn’t want to beg but he did, begging him not to, pleading with him to stop. His cries and pleading where cut short with a yell of agony as Jim forced his hard prick straight into him, filling him to the breech. 

 

Jim was groaning, grunted and moving, John was struggling and muffling his cries as he could feel his muscle begin to rip and bleed. This was not comfortable, this is not what he wanted and he still could feel his womb becoming ready and expanding. Even as fear and pain enveloped him, his biology was once more betraying him as Moriarty hit the opening with brutal force. No signs of pleasure ever ran through him and he cried, he yelled for Sherlock, begged him to come for him now, asking Jim to just stop then resorted to swearing and letting the tears fall. 

 

He was exhausted and in so much agony that he almost blacked out, but Jim had bit against his back, plucking at the stitches there, opening a wound and lapping up the blood. It caused John to remain awake, the pain so raw that it was his focus point no matter what he tried to do. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t extract words out of his mouth and he couldn’t help but feel the bile rise up into his throat. He was surprised that he didn’t choke. He heard Jim’s grunts and groans but he tried to tune it out, but it was difficult when he heard the man yell out for Sebastian as he emptied his load, most of it hitting the target and slipping into the womb. John felt the hole contract and instantly close and he cried more tears at that. 

 

With a sob he felt Jim leave him and heard the man fetch something. When he turned to John’s line of sight again he was wearing a robe and a sickening smirk. John heaved and gagged, his stomach contents emptying before finally collapsing to a broken heap. He still cannot get over what has happened to him in these five hours, everything returning to him in a sudden rush. The prodding and the whipping, the cold and the war, the cuts and the … the … the intrusion. It just wasn’t fair on him and he couldn’t help but blame his biology. 

 

Jim just laughed and moved away again before returning with a needle. The blessed euphoria was inside but John’s eyes widened and he strugged even more. His wounds began to stretch and open, they throbbed with pain and burning but he wouldn’t stop struggling. The needle was too full, there was too much and he didn’t like the look of it. He didn’t know what it would do to him. But struggle as he did, Jim inserted the needle into his neck and released three times as much as he was given before. Again it was instant, John could float away on a high which would last longer than his ten minutes before and he would be glad for that. 

 

 

The time is now ten to midnight and John’s as high as a kite.


	17. The Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that I am so not going to stick to the script of the show ;)   
> I'm just going to wing it and because you readers are awesome, here's Sherlock ...

Over the past five hours Sherlock was beyond himself and he was unreachable. He had gathered the information in the first hour, hunted the memory stick down in the second hour and spent the last two and a half hours encrypted the data and checking it over. He had sent a text to Mycroft, explaining what he was doing and how he had done it and the reply was instant. But Sherlock never read it. He didn’t need to. Messing about with a prophecy was beyond disgraceful but again, since when has Sherlock cared about that. He needs John back and there is no way he is going to give Moriarty something that would heighten his desire for the Blending. He was Sherlock’s!!

 

This was strange to him now, he has never felt possessive over anything, let alone anyone but he knew that this was because John was different. He didn’t feel possessive because of what his biology is, he felt possessive because of who john is as a person. The way he looks at him, the way he exclaims out loud how brilliant he is and the way he looks at him. If anyone else where to explain the feelings of warmth and fuzzy in the tummy when someone looked at them he would scoff and tell them love is nothing but a chemical reaction. But now, he was feeling it every time he thought back to what john was like when they were together. He felt it when he had stolen glances at the smaller man and he felt it when he thinks about that smile. He feels irrational fear of thinking about what he is going through over these five hours and tried as he might as he looked for them, he couldn’t find them. He had his associates out looking, Mycroft was keeping an eye out but there was nothing. The only way Sherlock was going to see John (and hopefully get him back alive) was in half an hour at the pool. 

**

 

The pool was dark when he entered; the lights were too dim to give a good enough glow. Sherlock was glad he brought a torch with him and when he shined it across the empty room he frowned. No john! Where was he!? What was …? The door to his left had opened and closed and someone was entering the room. No wait two people, one obviously carrying someone. Sherlock could tell by the sound of the feet against the ceramic floor. He instantly stiffened when the men had entered down the bottom towards his left. 

 

One man was dressed immaculately in a suit, hands in his pockets and a crooked smirk on his face. The other was tall, strongly built and had hold of a small giggling bundle.   
‘JOHN!!’ Sherlock almost yelled but he stiffened and tensed his jaw, watching them all with sharp eyes, but his mind was focused on the laughing bundle.   
With a soft click of the suit’s fingers, the strong man moved forward and non-so gently placed john in front of them. He was in his oatmeal jumper and jeans. John had turned to face Sherlock, his eyes glassy and his smile lop-sided. Sherlock knew the signs and he inwardly groaned. John was high and it wasn’t good. He was also wearing what appeared to be a bomb vest and the man who had placed him down had now pulled a gun out and trained it on John. Sherlock tensed all the more and slowly stepped forward, sliding the memory stick across the floor.

 

“Take it; it is what you wanted after all right. So take it, leave John and piss off!” Sherlock was hissing dangerously, his eyes narrowed into slits. They hurt John and he was going to make them pay for that. But it would have to wait until later; he had to get John out of that vest and to Mycroft. He watched as the man in the suit picked up the memory stick, kiss it and then throw it into the pool. This wasn’t making sense!!

 

“Now come on Sherlock, don’t be obvious. I know enough about John and I don’t need a messed up bit of prophecy to tell me some pathetic excuses and lies. John has told me enough about his race to begin with my dear. So no, no no no this is not what this has been about.” The suit (Moriarty obviously) began to step forward, moving to step over John as he tried to sit up and rest against one of the stalls at the far wall, the man with the gun still watched him closely. “This was a message my sweet, I always get what I want and no one can stop me, not even you. I have so much going on out there in this big bad world Sherlock and you are GETTING IN MY WAY!!” the yell bounced off the walls of the pool, causing john to burst into a fit of giggles and his head lolled to the side. He was mumbling something about a ‘nice piece of flat’ but he pushed that away for now. 

 

“And if I continue?” Best to play dumb, he still has a lot to process and everything is started to make sense. The memory stick was a diversion of the truth behind the game. This wasn’t about John. This was a power play and if he had just noticed the signs he would have been able to get to John quicker and he wouldn’t be a bumbling giggling state. 

 

“Well, you’ve seen what I can do Sherlock don’t play dumb. If you don’t stop, I won’t just kill you. I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the very heart out of you. And don’t pretend you don’t have one.” He turned to face John. “We all know that you do.” 

 

Sherlock followed his gaze and got the message, but he won’t stop. John would not let him. He turned his eyes back to Moriarty and watched him walk back. He couldn’t do anything but watch as he bent over John and he noticed that John’s breath quickened and his body tried to go into defence, even in his drugged state John was weary, maybe even terrified, of Moriarty. With a final laugh and a chuckle, both Moriarty and the gun man began to leave and Sherlock rushed to John’s side. He pulled him up and quickly ripped off the bomb, not one of them said anything and John was already shaking. His eyes were steadily returning to normal. Again Sherlock knew what was happening, John was going into a downer, and then will come the withdrawal. 

 

Sherlock had managed to get the vest off a shaky John Watson and throw it into the pool, his eyes scanned over John and pulled him close. Just at that moment was when the gun man and Moriarty reappeared. Moriarty looked chuffed and the gun man looked a little put out. Obviously not happy with the turn of events, and neither was John if his grip was anything to go by. 

 

“I’m sorry boys.” Moriarty chided and laughed. He stood behind the gun man and a little close to him as well. It was almost like this gun man was protecting him. Ah, they have some form of relationship. Moriarty has a weak spot. “I’m just too changeable. I can’t let you continue Sherlock.” At that John instantly stiffened and moved slightly, coming to stand in front of Sherlock. 

 

The gun was raised just as John had taken his own from Sherlock’s pocket (placed in for a precaution, Sherlock was thankful for it now) and raised it towards the floating bomb of the pool. He raised an eye brow and Sherlock, only a second hesitation before he nodded and everything happed too quickly. 

 

John had fired his pistol and the bomb exploded. Sherlock felt himself being thrown across the room, landing heavily on the floor and something landing on him. The whole place was a chaotic mess as the explosion ripped through it. The pool’s water was blown across the expanse of the room, the roof was collapsing and the walls were crumbling. The power of the blast had ruined this place. There was smoke and someone coughing. There was a yell for ‘Seb’ and a howl of rage before he could see a silhouette rushing away. He heard the sirens and he looked up and he saw it instantly.

 

What he thought was a part of the building that had pinned him was in fact John’s body. John had fired the gun and thrown himself at Sherlock to protect him from the worst of the blast. Yes Sherlock managed to sustain cuts and bruises, he was sure his back would be black and blue, but what he saw with John shocked him to the core and he couldn’t move. 

 

John’s jumper was burnt into the skin on his back, his right arms was twisted in a shocking way that it was sure to be broken, the backs of his legs had received lesser burns than his back and his head was lulled into Sherlock’s shoulder. He was sprawled protectively over Sherlock and he had taken the worst of the explosion. With a shaky hand he reached to John’s neck and tried to find a pulse. He breathed heavily as he found one but it was too weak. If those people did not come here soon, John would die and Sherlock refused to let that happen. He prayed to a God he doesn’t believe in and sighed a huge relief when a light flashed over them and Mycroft came into view.

 

“Rest Sherlock, we’ll take care of you both.” His older brother’s voice whispered gently, coaxing him into the darkness. Before slipping away completely he had begged Mycroft to find a suitable hospital for John, he couldn’t go to a normal one. Again Mycroft hushed him and promised it was all in order and with that Sherlock let the darkness surround him and take him, hoping that John would pull through this.


	18. The Aftermath

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up was the dull ache of his head. The next thing he noticed was that this was no ordinary hospital (thank goodness), it didn’t smell right. Hospitals smelt strongly of disinfectant and the sheets were stiff and white. But as he shifted he felt how the sheets were soft beneath him, the bed was bigger than a stupid single and the place was warm and quiet. He opened his eyes and was glad to find that he wasn’t blinded by the brightness that would be found in a normal hospital and he shifted to sit up. There was a gentle cough to his right and he turned his gaze and fixed it upon his older brother. At the sight Sherlock didn’t scowl or frown, he jumped up from the bed and moved to grip him tightly by the shoulders.

 

“Where’s John!? Where is he Mycroft!?” He was too beyond himself to even deduce the look Mycroft was given him in his eyes. Mycroft said nothing but took Sherlock’s arms gently and guided him back to the bed. At this Sherlock did frown and he began to observe.

 

Mycroft was tired; he didn’t sleep much during the night. Not through worry of Sherlock, after all his was only a minor concussion, nothing serious. John then. But why would he worry and lose sleep over John? Sherlock gave him his best gaze trying to take in what he could but the only person he could never read was his older brother.

 

“What’s happened to John Mycroft!?!” 

 

With a sigh Mycroft returned to his seat and began to tell Sherlock everything, starting from when they were found at the pool. 

“I read your sight Sherlock; I knew where you were going at midnight. I had CCTV footage watched each pool in a ten mile radius of the flat and you were under a red flag. Once you were spotted going into a pool just ten minutes away, I had begun starting to get a team ready. I was slow and should of arrived earlier and I must give my apologies.” He held up his hand to stop his brother from speaking, Sherlock gave a soft growl and indicated for him to hurry up. Get to the point of John! With a sigh Mycroft continued.

 

“When we came to the pool it was nothing but rubble. When we found you, John was lying above you, his injuries were quite severe. We extracted him as carefully as possible and brought him here. Only here did his injuries really come to light and I must warn you Sherlock. You will not like it.” Mycroft sighed and rubbed his face with one hand, the other resting against that damn umbrella.

 

“He has second degree burns on his back and thighs. The burns have removed most of the stitching he had on his back previous to the explosion. There are a few deep cuts on his shoulder blades, hips and what look like teeth marks across his neck. His rectum has sustained some forcible damage and he has ripped muscle, bleeding and bruising around the anal area. You understand this yes?”

 

Sherlock was pale but he nodded slowly. He was in shock. Utter shock. John had been through Hell and back and he still managed to save Sherlock’s life. Again.

 

“Sherlock, there’s more. Last night through surgery, Doctor Watson’s heart stopped. He died for over ten minutes before he regained his breath again. We are monitering his brain patterns closely, so far everything is fine but there is still a small chance of brain damage. I would say he has 35% chance of it or at best, some memory loss. His ribs and chest are bruised along with a bruised lung. He is currently on a ventilator to steady his breathing and he is in a simple coma but he is stable.”

 

“What are his chances My?” Sherlock asked quietly, his eyes brimming with tears. This was new for Sherlock and he couldn’t care a less. 

 

“Right now, I would say roughly 60-70% chance of survival. He’s next door if you would like to see him. You know what they say about coma patients. He might be able to hear you.”

 

Sherlock ignored that and rushed off. Of course he needed to see John; he needed to assess the damage for himself. Once he entered the room Mycroft had instructed to him he couldn’t help but gasp. John was wired up to all sorts of things, most obviously coaxing his body through withdrawal while John slept through it. Obviously Mycroft left that bit out because it was too close to home. The right arm was casted from his wrist to the shoulder and held up in the air. With a deep calming sigh, Sherlock made his way to John’s side and took his hand into his own and used his free hand to stroke at John’s sleeping face. That’s what it looked like; it looked like he was sleeping. The caring nurses had placed him on his side, facing the chair and Sherlock sat. he knew John’s position would enable the best and comfortable recovery but it must be weird with that tube in his mouth and his right arm in the air. But Sherlock didn’t care. He kept his hand in john’s, pulling the chair closer to the bed and remained there. He will not move until John woke, he will be the first thing he sees when he wakes and he will tell him how stupid he was for jumping on him and making himself like this. John was not allowed to be hurt!! 

**

The sudden rush of throbbing aches and burns reached him before he opened his eyes. He felt like something was forced down his throat and he began to panic. He’s been gagged this time. What were they going to do now!! He was so panicked he didn’t hear the calming shushing noises or feels the hand in his hair until whatever was in his throat was carefully removed. He breathed calmly and kept his eyes closed. He felt too tired to even bother, but he squeezed his hand before drifting off once more. 

 

**  
Sherlock was beside himself. John had woken from his coma and squeezed his hand before slipping into an unconscious state. At least it wasn’t a coma and John can finally breathe on his own. It was still ragged and short but they were getting calmer and better over time. He didn’t wake for a long while yet and Sherlock never left his side. He rarely slept, hardly ate and only moved to use the bathroom. He didn’t want john to wake up and find that Sherlock never even showered. It was another three weeks before john managed to open his eyes again and by that time, some of his wounds has healed to small white scares, everything else was going nicely and his breathing had returned to normal. 

 

***

Sherlock was reading a cold case file that was brought to him. One hand going through the pages while the other held onto John’s hand. He refused to let go. The squeeze jolted his gaze upwards, his heart hammering with excitement and he locked gaze with a bleary eyed John and he couldn’t help but beam at him. 

 

He was up within a second and the file had slipped to the floor. One hand drifted into John’s hair as the other still clung to John’s hand.

 

“Hey Sherlock. You ok?” John’s voice is rusty and dry from lack of use.

 

John never ceases to amaze him and he is shocked to stillness. “You’ve been out of it for five weeks and you’re asking me if I’m ok? I should be asking you. Are you ok? Anything hurt? Do you need anything? What do you remember?”

 

John groaned softly and answered honestly and in order. At least Sherlock would know what he is talking about this way. “I’m fine. Everything is a dull burn. Water. Yes.”

 

With that answer Sherlock looked over him for a second and dashed about, getting his water and helping him drink it. They were silent for a while and Sherlock returned to his seat, pulling it closer to John and gripping his hand.

 

**

It was like this throughout John’s slow recovery. John only spoke about what had happened when he felt the need to. What he did tell Sherlock was how he managed to pull a story together while in a great deal of stress. How he managed to look glazed and in a trance. He explained that it was then that he tried to get through to Sherlock, to tell him what was really the point in this and it created the look he needed. John went on to say what he told Moriarty, how he spun the lies for him to keep him away for as long as possible. Sherlock and grinned at that, saying how perfect that was and how smart it was and the like. 

 

They never spoke about why they kept holding hands, or the soft kisses Sherlock gave to John’s head throughout the recovery and they just accepted the way their friendship was going. They both felt the change and they both wanted it and all it took was a psychopath to show the how much they meant to one another. 

 

 

Mycroft had been in to inform them that Moriarty escaped, the man who was with him was dead and John instantly stiffened. He explained what he thought went on between the two and how he feels that Moriarty won’t stop until get gets revenge for the death of his lover and he makes the brothers promise not to let him fall into his grip again. Especially now. Now that the results are in and they are positive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave it there folks.  
> comments and kudos welcome  
> thank you all for staying with me and will update asap xxx


	19. Welcome back to a new Hell Mr Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as he was coming to terms with things, the poisonous spider springs from his web and bites!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Johnlock sexy times(ish) (at very long last I know) 
> 
> \- Trigger warning for forced miscarriage. Keeping it as small as possible but it is still there.

It has been almost five months since John could return home from the Holding Hall’s secrete hospital base. His burns are reducing to nothing but scars and he still refuses to have skin grafts are plastic surgery. He sees them as marks of survival and he will cope with them as a reminder to keep strong and always solder on. 

 

Five months home, almost six months since the pool incident, since his hours of hell and he still wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat and forcing back the tears. As always, when the night terrors start, he is glad that Sherlock is beside him, calming him down by stroking his bulging stomach. 

 

They have done nothing but talk about and became public of not only their relationship status but also of John’s predicament and biology only three months ago. Sherlock was against it from the start, against keeping the ‘child of satin’ as he called her, against telling everyone what had happened, against everything really. But John won out, as per usual. He was chuffed about this at least, but he did have to come to terms with the fact that he was carrying a mad man’s baby, said mad man was nowhere to be found and Sherlock was becoming more and more protective of John over the coming months. He was becoming suffocated, which is why he is blending into the scenery of the town, blocking out all people, giving them ideas to swerve away from him so they don’t crush him or walk into him. This is the first time in all his life he has finally come to terms with what he is and what he can do and with the training he has been receiving through his recent dreams (when they were no nightmares (Which is hardly common, there’s always a nightmare)). Yes, it is hard to understand how it is possible to even say this: even Sherlock has to bring out a logical explanation for it all. Which he is still trying to figure out by the way. 

 

Now here he is, John Watson, retired soldier, last of his kind and shifting through the crowed, six months pregnant with Moriarty’s baby girl. Every time that thought comes to him his concentration struggles and he shifts into view, getting curious glances and yells of acknowledgment before he’s blending again and making the people around him forget he was even there. Now, Sherlock has told him time and time again that he is new to this whole relationship family thing and he hates drawling and smelly and whingey brats, but he will cope with it for John. And this in itself makes John smile. He has come to terms with his pregnancy himself, learning to create a bond with his child, trying to share emotions and feelings of love and safety. Even if he does quiver with the thought of her looking and even becoming anything like Moriarty. It makes him sick and his child becomes confused until he soothes her with warmth. He has learned that this connection helps with the development with a new child, a new kind even but when these dreams come with the words of wisdom; the faces look grave and unjust. They never say why.

**

It is another hour before John returns from his walk, Sherlock now calmer than when he had left. He didn’t find a location for Moriarty but word is that he is on the move again, and Sherlock had tried (and failed) to keep John locked in the flat. Of course John would go mental and kick up a fuss until Sherlock was forced to let him out.

 

He had done nothing but pace until he could feel the tension leave him and now he was sat in his chair, staring at the wall, his fingers beneath his chin in his prayer like thinking state. He was dwelling on these last few months. He did not want a child that was his never mind a one that belonged to a psychopathic killer! Well, that was at the start. He had argued and yelled at John, trying to force him to see reason but John refused to end a life that hadn’t even started yet. That’s just John, caring for something that wasn’t even alive! And making Sherlock FEEL for the thing too!? It was not logical.

 

But just last month, John had put his hand on his stomach and he felt the thing move and kick. It did something to his heart and it hurt. But it was a good hurt. He had asked John about this and he just grinned, said something about love and they kissed. They kissed until it deepened and Sherlock was melting into it, becoming hard. He needed to touch, to be touched but John had stopped it before it went any further. 

 

 

Sherlock understood that rape victims would feel dirty and disgusted when sex was initiated but Sherlock had told John he was perfect and that he would make him feel better than he did. He tried to get John to change his mind but was given a cold stare, a yell and John had stormed away, leaving Sherlock’s arousal to wilt. 

 

But now, thinking things over, he had thought that giving John his time and space would help, but now with Jim on the loose he can’t give him the space he feels that John might need. He can’t lose John, he can’t lose the brat. If John cares then so should Sherlock really, but Sherlock wants John’s attention on him. Always on him. But getting that means caring for the small brat growing in his stomach and it pulls at his heart painfully when he thinks of losing her. 

 

This is confusing and now John’s home. Sherlock needs a distraction. He’s up out of the chair and his lips are against John’s softly. With One hand on his cheek, the other resting against the bulge (like always now) Sherlock brings John towards the couch and lowers himself down, bringing John against his knees, always mindful of the bulging stomach. The noise John makes has him smirking lightly against the lips and John has to pull back, his breathing quickening, his pulse racing and his eyes blown. If that was not a sign of lust that Sherlock did not mirror, then the bulge in their pants was a sure enough tell.

 

“Sherlock.” John sighed, calming himself as he began to shake. “I can’t. I want to but I can’t.”  
Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head against John’s, breathing a little calmer now. “It’ll be alright John, this is me. I’m scared too. I’ve never…“ He’s never admitted to being scared and he tenses lightly. He’s never done this with anyone before, not anyone that matters to him anyway. 

 

John leans back a little, staring at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, “You are kidding right? I always thought that the ‘virgin’ jibe was a joke. Not that it would matter. I mean, it’s all fine, everything is…”

 

“No!” Sherlock clung to John, pulling him close so he can rest his head against John’s neck. “I mean. I’ve done other things obviously. Masturbation, blowjobs and hand jobs. They were never with anyone I cared for and they never meant anything so I never dabbled in anal. Never saw the need. I don’t want that right now, I just want to touch. Please john.” Sherlock ground his hips upwards, connecting their arousal together, giving both erections a little friction, causing soft moans to escape their lips. 

 

Again John pulled back, his breath coming in short gasps once more as he moved himself to sit next to Sherlock against the couch. Sherlock couldn’t help but whine at this but John turned to face him with a smirk, giving pleasurable chills through Sherlock’s spine.

 

“You want to touch? Then touch.” John’s hand moved down to free his erection from his trousers and pants; Sherlock could do nothing but stare. John smirked even more and turned a little so Sherlock got a better view. Sherlock had to turn also, bringing out a shaking hand to run his fingers over John’s rock hard length. John shivered and moved to unfasten Sherlock’s trousers and free his erection also, causing Sherlock to shift again and moan softly. They stared long into each other’s eyes, they breathe coming in fast and deep as each wrapped a hand around the other erection. Just feeling each other, weighing each other and oh how John felt wonderful in his hand. 

 

“Sher … Sherlock. Copy me.” John managed to gasp out as his hand moved along Sherlock’s shaft. He wasn’t about to say he knew how to ‘jack another off’, he wasn’t going to ruin his chance at finally getting to feel. John’s hand tightened and twisted a little, the thumb running against the tip and Sherlock moaned out loudly at the sudden pleasure. God, it felt good! He copied the motion on John and watched as he closed his eyes and parted his lips. Trying to get in more oxygen. He couldn’t stop himself as he moved forward to kiss those lips as their hands moved against each other, quicker, more pressure until they both came with a loud groan, swallowed down by the other. 

 

“Well, isn’t this a lovely sight.” An Irish tilt called through from the doorway, ripping Sherlock away from John and standing in front of him in a protective manor. He didn’t care that he was covered in semen, he didn’t care that his trousers where still around his ankles; he just looked up towards the sneering Irish man with a scare across his left cheek. “I believe an IOU is in order Sherlock. You took mine, now I’m going to take yours.”

 

Before anyone could move, the flat was filling slowly with smoke, the smell of it didn’t seem to be too bad to Normals, but as his brain done a quick processing and he heard John begin to cough and splutter before he could get a word in, he knew how dangerous it was. 

 

He ignored Moriarty as he sneered at them and he turned to face John, trying to cover up his mouth and nose. John was shaking his head and clutching his stomach tightly. John’s eyes where full of pain as he began to crumble to the floor, Sherlock only managing to catch him. When he turned to fire anything at Jim, he was gone. The smoke was dying down a little now and John was curled up in agony. Something wet was seeping out against Sherlock and he looked to see where it was. John was covered in blood and there was no injury. By the way he clutched against his stomach as he passed out, there is only one explanation. Jim came to take away something from John, an IOU for causing the explosion which obviously destroyed Sebastian. Sherlock couldn’t do nothing but shake terribly, John is going to be heart broken when he wakes and Jim will pay with his blood for this!! He swears it on the soul of his unborn daughter, Moriarty will pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My appologies for being an evil bitch, but there is a happy ending to this I swear xxx


	20. There's Always a Silver Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is determined for revenge, Sherlock watches and there's the silver lining.

All he can remember is pain. Agonising pain in the bottom of his stomach, then the slick feeling between his legs as he passed out. Then he remembered as he woke up. He remembered the smoke, he remembered how Jim had stood there and glared, watching as John’s world came crashing in on him once more. Just as everything was getting better Jim had come along and stolen it from him. Well no more!! No one forces his child away from a world where she was not born into and got away with it. He didn’t care where he was now or what happened later, in the end he will have Jim’s heart in a pan of boiling water and his insides fed to the neighbour’s dogs! 

 

He took a deep shuddering breath and opened his eyes fully; he was in the same place as before, now with Sherlock pacing with his angry face on instead of moping about in the chair. He was muttering to himself, his eyes glistened with danger and a promise and as John looked down he confirmed his own predictions. His stomach had deflated and returned to it’s normal flat state, although with a few stretchmarks. The only thing that noted what was once there before. 

 

“She was …. I mean he … John I’m sorr … I’LL KILL HIM!!” Sherlock roared at the end, moving to throw a table over towards what is supposed to be a bathroom. He was breathing heavily and had his hands in his hair now, pulling at the strands, his nails scarping his scalp. John flinched, he didn’t know what was going through his mind but it seems that Sherlock was overcome with emotions he could not deal with. 

 

“I know, we’ll have a plaque in her honour once this is over with Sherlock. We will both get him.” John had now pulled himself up into a sitting position, the blood and dampness in his bottom area was gone and he only felt a little bit of pain. No doubt his cycle would return every three months now after this.

 

“No John! You are NOT being involved this time. I won’t …”

 

“Don’t you dare Sherlock!!” John yelled over him, his body tensing and his hands gripping tightly into the sheets. There was no way he was being kept out of this one. He will take down Moriarty for this! “We are in this together or not at all!! There is no way I am being left out of this, she was my child!! MINE!!” John was shouting loudly now, his face red with anger and by god! He’s never felt this angry before. So angry it is blinding him. “YOU WILL NOT REFUSE ME MY VENGENCE!! HE HELD ME FOR FIVE HOURS, PUT ME THROUGH HELL AND WATCHED AS I BECAME BROKEN. HE POSIBLY WATCHED AS YOU FIXED ME AGAIN. HE PROBABLY KNEW WE WERE FIXING US AND NOW HES BROKEN US AGAIN WITH A SNAP OF HIS FUCKING FINGERS!!” John took a breather, holding up his shaken hands to his face, lifted his knees up to his chest and fell into the arms he now realised where around him. He has never felt so pissed off, so murderous. He has never wanted someone’s blood on his hands more than he does this second. “He’ll die at my hands Sherlock, give me that.” His throat was sore but he didn’t care. He needed Sherlock to promise him this. He needed it. He heard the soft ‘yes’ from Sherlock and he finally let the flood gates open and sobbed his broken heart into Sherlock’s shoulder. He is sure he felt dampness against his hair but he never brought it up. 

**

After another week in hospital and tests and pitying looks, John and Sherlock returned home to 221B, Baker Street and saw Mycroft waiting for them. He never said anything but left a few files on the desk, nodded then left. Sherlock had moved quickly, flipping through the files while keeping one eye on John as he moved slowly to make tea. His anger and eagerness to get to work shows in his stiff posture and the way he glares at the files.

 

It’s not going to be easy to find someone like Moriarty, but if they are lucky, they can bring Moriarty to them. But with something like this, he needs John to focus and he needs his full consent. The files are useless, just some notes on the last seen where abouts of the insane genius, as well as some descriptions of his latest work. No. what he needs is John and he’s not sure if this little instant thought is even his.

 

“Are you sure?” He asks carefully as John came in with the teas. John paused for less than a mili-second but Sherlock noticed. He always notices and in that instant he knows that it was John putting the idea into his head. He says nothing but he nods to Sherlock and sits to drink his tea. “John, it will be dangerous. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

 

“Sherlock, he took something from me and he knows every chemical that could kill me but not even give him a cough.” John put his cup down, he was strangely calm about all this and he looked at Sherlock with determination only a soldier can have when knowing they may face certain death. “All you have to do is distract him, I’ll do the rest. I know he loves to play his games with you, battle of the brains,” John was mocking now. He really did hate Moriarty. “What better way than to bring the game to him, outwit him and end this thing once and for all. I’ll rest easy with his heart in my hands.” 

 

Sherlock just nodded, the sound in John’s voiced bounced of every nerve in his body. He did love it when he was like this and he couldn’t help but think how it would be like if John dominated him in the bedroom with that voice. With a mental shake and John’s insistent stare, Sherlock sent the text.

 

You have my attention.  
Let’s play, Bart’s roof.  
Come alone and leave John out  
Of this. This is between us. –SH

 

He kept his phone close to his chest, making it look as if he is hiding it from John. Jim might be watching them, but he is certain that the small bugs don’t have audio. A moment later Sherlock got a reply, nodded to John and went to grab his coat. He was leaving now; Jim will be there in half an hour. He left the front door open as he hailed for a cap, a small nagging in his mind told him that John was close and protected with his gun. When a taxi pulled up, he opened the door wide and made a show of looking around before stepping inside. He knew John was blending, making sure to give small ideas into Sherlock’s mind just to let him know he was close. 

 

They made it to the roof of Bart’s and waited, no one whispering, they couldn’t risk it. After what felt like forever for Sherlock, Jim walked up onto the roof, smirked and raised an eyebrow. 

 

“Let’s dance Sherlock my dear.” Jim smiled a calm smile, hands pressed behind his back as he circled Sherlock, his eyes looking over him, head to toe; toe to head. “Did you know that your pet killed my pet? You should train him better. Or better yet, maybe I’ll train him for you.”

**

John was watching from the roof door. Close enough to hear but too far away to be noticed. Even if he was concentrating on blending in, sending Sherlock messages and keeping his mind focused on checking the perimeter, he still had to be extra careful.

 

The mention of pets made him shiver, he couldn’t help it. He will not be under that man’s grip again if he could help it. 

 

“This is not about him now Jim. This is about us.” Sherlock was saying now. Both Jim and Sherlock were in a battle of staring each other down. So while this was going on, John could switch off from them and focus on the perimeter a little better.

 

He had found five snipers close by and he sent them huge ideas to pull the trigger against themselves. It was hard work but bringing forth their darkest, depressive thoughts he was able to manage it. Soon enough, there was no one but the three of them on or near this roof and he turned his attention to the so called dance in front of them. 

 

“I can make you rich and I can make use of that genius once and for all my dear.” Ah so Jim was trying to Sherlock on board. Thank goodness Sherlock was refusing it. Now was the perfect time to step into the light and soak up the attention. Sherlock was warned to stay back, just to keep him busy while John worked and it was going perfectly.

 

John stepped forward, raised his gun to Jim’s chest and sneered at the cowardly criminal before him. “Look at you! All suits and words. But you really are nothing but a stick in the mud Jim. Just a pathetic little boy who can’t get his own way.” Jim turned as Sherlock stepped back with a smile on his face. 

 

John stepped forward, keeping his hand steady and trained on Jim’s heart. The criminal just smirked back and tilted his head a little.

 

“You honestly think I would come alone?” Jim laughed so loud it was crazy. He pulled a walky-talky out of his pocket and whispered something. When nothing happened he began whispering loudly, hissing and his voice becoming angry but his eyes showed fear. 

 

“Dear, dear, dear.” John tutted, thankful that Sherlock was keeping out of this one. “You haven’t done enough research on what a Blending can actually do have you? Well, let’s give you one final lesson.” John lowered his gun, moving it to the knee cap and fired. Sherlock jumped, Jim fell to the floor in pain and John just smiled. God he has missed this!

 

“Rule one. Think of the name. A Blending and blend into any background, send of little thoughts inside a Normal’s mind and it is as though he is never there.” John moved his arm again and shot the other knee cap. Jim’s yell was drowned out by Sherlock’s gleeful snort. John had to push it back before he turned on the man and took him then and there. What was wrong with him, how could revenge taste so sweet? Jim was bleeding pretty badly now and John had lowered the gun to step over him, his left hand moving behind him to offer the gun to Sherlock (who took it just as calmly).

 

“Rule number two. Because we can place ideas into a Normal’s mind, we can also plant ideas in there, drag their thoughts forward to back up that idea. It was easy enough to persuade your men to shoot themselves.” John smirked and leaned down, taking Jim by the throat, squeezing and loving the sound of Jim struggle.

 

“One more thing. A Blending is very VERY protective of what is his. You try and take that or you do take that then you have a murderous man on your hands.” Jim’s whimper was not hidden, he was completely afraid. He never said anything when John leaned in closer. “you never try and take Sherlock. You should never have taken my daughter and you should never have ever killed my kind.” With that John squeezed tighter, watching the life drain from Jim with Sherlock now at his side.

 

They both watched as the man died at John’s hand, Sherlock texted for his brother to do the clean-up while they both went home and shared the bed. It was a good end to a hell of a ride, John finally got his man, Sherlock finally chose to care and Moriarty could no longer be a poisonous thorn in their side. 

**  
One year, three months and twenty days later John Watson up dated his blog with some news. He is a proud father of a seven pound baby boy and is now looking after both Sherlock Holmes and his son Andrew Omega Holmes. Not a day goes by that he never thinks of what could have been. He takes both Sherlock and Andrew to a small golden plague with the named Suzie Hudson Holmes and he talks about everything that could have been and everything that is. Sherlock continues with his case, Mrs Hudson on child watch when John's goes with him. People know the truth, know what he is and know how he became. he even added that to his blog. explaining the scientific nuclear accident that brought about the change in some men so many years ago and well, the result is John H. Watson. Father and lover, doctor and crime fighter and he couldn't be happier.

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks.
> 
> Hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it xxx
> 
>  
> 
> A huge thank you to Bonfoi for pointing out where I can improve and for giving me a few pointers xx
> 
>  
> 
> Also huge thanks to Chanel for also pointing out mistakes and giving me pointers. xx


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